My First Time Was with My Mother’s Older Cousin

That Sunday afternoon, almost the whole family had gone over to the neighbors’ house across the street, where Marisa was turning fifty and putting on a barbecue that had already been going for hours. I’d lasted through one sausage and the first round of beers, but then I slipped away. Sunday afternoons always wore me out, and the idea of staying home alone, with the curtain drawn and the fan running full blast, was the closest thing to happiness I knew at nineteen.

I was wearing soccer shorts and an old T-shirt, sprawled on the living-room sofa watching something on my phone, when I heard the gate. I thought it would be my mom, who had forgotten something, but the footsteps were too heavy to be hers.

“Anyone here?” a voice called from the kitchen.

I sprang upright. It was Ramiro, my mom’s older cousin, whom we’d always called “Uncle” out of habit. He was forty-eight, with a pronounced receding hairline and arms that looked as if they’d been taken from another era, back when he trained with weights in the concrete patio. He smelled of cold beer, sun, and cheap cologne that had evaporated halfway through the bottle.

“Uncle, what are you doing here?” I asked from the hallway, pretending to be more surprised than I was.

“I came to get some ice; they sent me. But the truth is, I’m already a little drunk and I don’t feel like going straight back,” he said, leaning against the kitchen doorframe. “You don’t have another beer to keep me company?”

I pointed to the refrigerator and stayed standing there, not quite sure what to do with my body. I’d seen him hundreds of times at birthdays and Christmases, always speaking a little louder than necessary, always telling old stories no one had asked for. But that afternoon, with the house empty and the muffled sound of the barbecue from across the street, it was different. He was a big man, his shirt open two buttons, sweating, taking up almost the entire width of the kitchen.

He took out a beer and sat in one of the plastic chairs my mom kept against the wall. I leaned against the counter facing him, my bare feet on the warm tiles.

“You’re getting pretty big yourself, huh?” he said, openly looking me up and down. “The last time I saw you, you were still a kid.”

“The last time you saw me was three months ago.”

“Three months. Time flies,” he murmured, more to himself than to me.

There was a long silence. I kept looking at his arms, the rounded shape of his biceps, the veins standing out on his forearm whenever he lifted the can. I don’t know when I crossed the kitchen, or how I decided to do it. All I remember is placing my palm against his chest, over the fabric of his shirt, as if checking whether a surface was warm.

Ramiro didn’t move. Not a single muscle. He only looked at me from below, his eyes slightly narrowed by the alcohol and by something else I still couldn’t quite read.

“You’re hard here,” I said, and my own voice sounded foreign to me.

“I used to exercise a lot. I mean, before. Not so much anymore.”

I moved my hand down his shirt and back up to his arm. I squeezed his biceps with my fingers. Ramiro kept talking as if nothing were happening, telling me some story about the neighborhood gym that had closed years ago. My mind no longer heard the words, only the deep rhythm of his voice. Without realizing it, my eyes dropped to his crotch, and there it was: a bulge lifting the fabric of his trousers, thick, unmistakable, pressed against his thigh. My mouth went dry.

“Listen, can you do me a favor?” he interrupted suddenly, following the direction of my gaze. “I’ve got a problem with my phone. WhatsApp isn’t working and I need to send a photo. Can you take a look, since you’re young?”

“Come to my room; I’ve got everything there,” I said without thinking.

***

My room was at the back, separated from the living room by a narrow hallway. I closed the door behind us out of habit, not strategy, although it’s hard for me to believe that now. Ramiro handed me the phone and sat on the edge of the bed, his legs spread and his elbows resting on his knees. I sat beside him, so close that my bare thigh brushed the rough fabric of his trousers.

I fixed his stupid WhatsApp problem in thirty seconds. Then I stayed there with the phone in my hand, not giving it back, looking for an excuse to stretch out the moment.

“Uncle,” I said, and the word sounded ridiculous to me, “did you really work out that much before?”

“A lot. Every day, two hours. Until I was thirty-five.”

“Show me.”

He raised his eyebrows, amused.

“Show you what?”

“I don’t know, your arms, your chest. To see if you can still tell.”

He laughed, a short laugh that came from his stomach, and pulled off his shirt with a lazy movement. The skin of his torso was lighter than that of his forearms, with a few gray hairs scattered across the center of his chest. His belly was slightly swollen from the beer, but his shoulders and pecs were still firm, as if carved from wood that time had polished.

Without thinking, I placed both hands on his chest. I felt his heart beating faster than his face let on.

“You’re hot,” I murmured.

“So are you.”

It wasn’t a joke. He said it quietly, his voice raspy, and in that second I understood there was no turning back. I lowered one hand over his belly, along that line of gray hair splitting his stomach in two, and laid it over the bulge in his trousers. Ramiro closed his eyes and let out a breath through his nose. His cock had grown rock-hard, so hard the fabric barely contained it. I squeezed it with my palm, ran my hand up and down over his trousers, measuring its length with my fingers.

“Fuck, kid,” he murmured, his jaw tight. “If you keep that up, I’m going to have to fuck you right here.”

“Then why not now?” I replied, my heart pounding at my temples as if it wanted to burst out.

***

Ramiro stood in front of me and pulled his trousers down to his thighs. Beneath them he wore tight white boxer briefs, misshapen by his erection, with a dark spot of precum at the tip. He lowered them himself, unhurried, and his cock sprang free, hard and pointing at the ceiling. It was thick, thicker than I’d imagined, with veins standing out along the shaft and a swollen, shiny, wet head. A tuft of gray hair surrounded the base. His balls hung heavy, covered in gray fuzz.

I knelt on the carpet between his legs, my hands braced on his thighs so I wouldn’t tremble so much. It was the first time I’d seen another man’s cock like that, so close, so within reach of my mouth. It took me a few seconds to work up the nerve. I wrapped my hand around the shaft—I couldn’t close my fingers all the way—and stroked it slowly, feeling the skin slide over that stone-hard length. A thread of clear liquid seeped from the tip and smeared my knuckles.

“Put it in your mouth, come on,” he whispered, one hand on the back of my neck, not pushing, only guiding me. “Slowly, easy.”

I stuck out my tongue and ran the tip over his glans, tasting the salty precum. Then I opened my mouth and took the head of his cock inside. I started clumsily. Too much saliva, too much haste, my teeth showing when they shouldn’t. Ramiro didn’t rush me. He told me how in whispers: “Cover your teeth with your lips,” “Breathe through your nose,” “Not so deep, that’s it, like that.” I learned. I sucked the tip, then took as much of the shaft into my mouth as I could manage and came back up with my tongue out, wetting it with saliva.

“That’s it, that’s it, fuck,” he growled, letting his head fall back against the wall. “Good. Suck it properly.”

After a few minutes I’d found a rhythm. I held the base with one hand and sucked the tip hungrily, my tongue working his frenulum, my lips tight around the shaft. With my other hand I felt his balls, weighed them in my palm, and squeezed them gently. Ramiro’s eyes were closed, his head thrown back, the veins in his neck swollen, his open mouth releasing heavy breaths.

“Look at me while you suck it,” he asked, and I raised my eyes without taking his cock from my mouth. He looked at me as if he wanted to devour me whole. He gripped the back of my neck and pushed me a little farther in, until the head touched the back of my palate and made me gag. He let me breathe, then pushed again. “You’re a natural-born faggot, kid. A textbook faggot.”

My legs were trembling, my knees, even my toes dug into the carpet. The fly of my shorts had risen with my own erection, and he noticed.

“Let’s see. Stand up. Take everything off.”

I stood and pulled off my shorts and underwear in one motion. My cock showed, smaller than his, thinner, but rock-hard and wet at the tip. Ramiro grabbed it and stroked it two, three times, smiling crookedly.

“Little thing, but it’s all mine, huh?”

He turned me around and gently pushed me against the bed. I braced myself on my knees at the edge, my ass in the air, my face buried in the sheet. I heard Ramiro spit into his hand and rub his glans. Then I felt his fingers between my buttocks, spreading them, and a wet finger searching for my hole. He pressed there, circled around it, and without warning pushed the tip in to the knuckle. My whole body tensed.

“Loosen your ass, kid. Breathe.”

He inserted another finger. I felt a dull, uncomfortable burn, but also a strange spasm that climbed up my back. He moved them inside me, scissoring them, opening me up. Then he pulled them out, and I felt a much more stubborn pressure, much thicker, pressing against the entrance. The head of his cock pressed, pushed, looking for a way in. I wanted to scream, but only a muffled whimper came out against the sheet.

“Wait, wait,” I begged. “It hurts.”

He stayed still, not withdrawing completely, the glans just barely inside me, breathing slowly against my back. At that very moment, we heard the back gate, and my cousin Aldana’s voice calling to someone from the patio.

“Shit,” Ramiro murmured, pulling away as if my skin had burned him.

We dressed in a hurry. He ran a hand through his hair and straightened his shirt, while I sat on the bed, breathing unevenly and staring at my feet. When we went out into the living room, Aldana was already in the kitchen looking for a larger knife for the barbecue. She barely greeted us. Ramiro carried on the conversation as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t just had half his cock inside my ass.

“Well, I’ll take the ice,” he said, grabbing the cooler.

Before leaving, he looked at me one last time from the hallway. He didn’t need to say anything.

***

He came back the next day, during the afternoon nap. My mom had gone two blocks away to collect her pension, and my dad was asleep with the air conditioner on in the big bedroom. Ramiro came in through the back door without ringing the bell.

“Are you alone?” he asked quietly.

“Almost. But we can close my door.”

This time there were no excuses or conversation. We walked to the bedroom in silence, as if we were both afraid that a single word might make us change our minds. He locked the door and kissed me for the first time. A rough kiss, smelling of yerba mate and mint, his tongue entering my mouth without asking permission, searching for mine and twisting around it. It left me breathless. He grabbed my ass over my shorts and pressed me against his body. I felt his cock raised against my hip, as hard as the day before.

“Want to finish what we started yesterday?” he said against my ear. “Today I’m going to fuck you slowly, until you beg me for it.”

I nodded without speaking.

He ripped off my shirt. He sucked my nipples, one and then the other, nibbling them until they hardened. He moved down over my stomach, knelt on the carpet, and pulled my shorts down with his teeth. When my cock sprang out an inch from his face, he laughed softly, and without saying anything he took it all the way into his mouth, down to the base, sucking it as if it were a candy. I had to hold on to his shoulders so I wouldn’t fall. No one had ever given me head like that, with such ease, his tongue curling around it, his cheeks hollowing around the shaft.

“My turn,” I said, my voice trembling.

We switched places. He sat on the edge of the bed and I knelt again, now with more confidence. I unbuttoned his trousers, pulled them down, and took his cock out of his briefs. I put it in my mouth as far as I could take it, without fear. I ran my tongue along its entire length, from his balls to the tip. I sucked his testicles one by one, took them into my mouth, and coated them with saliva. Then I moved back up and sucked him until he had to gently pull me away to keep from coming.

“Stop, stop, I’ll shoot if you keep going,” he panted, his cock dripping with saliva and precum, throbbing in his hand.

He lay me facedown on the bed, spread my legs with his knee, and positioned himself behind me. This time he’d brought saliva, spit, a cream he took from his trouser pocket. He put a generous amount on his fingers and spread it over my hole, circling it and pressing little by little. He took his time. He prepared me with one finger first, pushing it all the way in, pulling it out, then putting it back. After that he inserted two and scissored them, opening me up.

“Tell me if it hurts too much,” he whispered, kissing the small of my back.

He pulled his fingers out, coated his cock with the cream, and pressed the glans against my entrance. He went in slowly, millimeter by millimeter. It burned just the same, but less. I felt every inch as both an intrusion and a welcome, the head forcing the muscle open, then the shaft pushing its way through, swelling me from the inside. I clenched the sheet between my teeth. When he was completely inside me, he stayed still, breathing against my nape, one hand spread over my waist, his pelvis pressed against my buttocks.

“There, it’s done,” he said, almost to reassure me. “The worst is over. Now I’m going to fuck you good.”

He began to move. Neither too fast nor too slow, as if he were gauging me. Every thrust drew a moan from me against the mattress. He held my waist with both hands, sometimes moving one up to my back and stroking me with his open palm, other times digging it into my shoulder to pull me back while he thrust forward. Whenever he went all the way in, his pelvis smacked against my buttocks with a wet sound, and I felt a shiver run down my legs, a strange mixture of dull pain and something new, something resembling a pleasure I still didn’t know the name of.

“What an ass you’ve got, fuck,” he grunted, picking up the pace. “Tight as a virgin’s ass.”

He reached underneath me and grabbed my cock. He stroked it at the same rhythm as he fucked me from behind. My face was buried in the pillow, my mouth open, moaning softly so no one on the other side of the house would hear me.

“Turn over,” he said after a while. “I want to see your face while I come inside you.”

He pulled out slowly, and I felt the emptiness. I turned onto my back. He lifted my legs and draped them over his shoulders, then settled between them again, slowly, looking into my eyes. He spat into his hand, spread the saliva over his cock, and began easing it in. This time the sensation was different, deeper, my legs folded against my chest. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, dug my nails into his arms, and touched the chest that had called to me from the kitchen that very afternoon. He held my gaze as if he wanted to make sure I wasn’t having second thoughts.

“You’re okay,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

“I’m okay. Fuck me, come on. Fuck me hard.”

His expression clouded. He began thrusting deeper, with long strokes, pulling almost all the way out and then sinking back in to the balls. The bed creaked. I watched the line of his jaw, the drops of sweat running from his temple to his chin, his lips parted. Every time he went deep, he touched something inside me, a spot that shook my whole body, made me clench my teeth and arch my back against the mattress.

“There, there, don’t stop,” I begged, realizing I was no longer ashamed of the voice coming out of me.

He grabbed my cock again and stroked it in time with his thrusts. He worked it quickly, his palm thoroughly wet with saliva, while he fucked me harder and harder. At some point I felt everything rise from my balls to my head, and I came like I never had before, in thick spurts that splashed my stomach and chest, moaning softly with my eyes closed. My ass tightened around his cock, and that was the end for him.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he panted. “Inside, okay? Inside.”

“Inside, yes, come inside me.”

He pressed me against the mattress, buried his face in my neck, let out a deep, low groan, and I felt his cock throbbing inside me, shooting hot spurts one after another. He stayed still on top of me, thrusting gently, emptying himself to the last drop. I felt something warm and slippery spill inside me, much more than I’d imagined.

He remained on top of me for a few seconds without moving, his forehead against mine, his cock still hard and buried in my ass. Then he slowly raised himself and eased out. When he was completely out, I felt semen trickling between my buttocks onto the sheet. He went to the bathroom without saying anything. I lay there staring at the ceiling fan, listening to the tap running. My legs were still spread, and there was a strange sensation between my thighs, as if only then was I beginning to understand what had happened.

When he came back from the shower, already dressed, he approached the bed and placed a hand on my shoulder.

“This stays between us,” I told him.

“Of course. I’m not going to tell anyone.”

He kissed my forehead the way a father kisses a sleeping son, and left. I heard the car engine start at the curb, drive away, and turn the corner.

Then I got into the shower and stayed under the water for a long time, feeling someone else’s semen run down the insides of my thighs, not really knowing what I thought or felt. I only knew one thing: the idea of seeing him again at the next family birthday no longer embarrassed me. It filled me with anticipation.