My First Time Was with My Mother’s Older Cousin

That Sunday afternoon, almost the whole family had gone to the neighbors across the street, where Marisa was turning fifty and putting on a barbecue that had been going for hours. I had held out for a while through the first chorizo and the first round of beer, but then I slipped away. Sunday afternoons always wore me out, and the idea of being alone at home, with the curtain lowered and the fan on full blast, was as close to happiness as I knew at nineteen.

I was wearing soccer shorts and an old T-shirt, stretched out on the living room sofa looking at something on my phone when I heard the gate. I thought it might be my mom, who had forgotten something, but the footsteps were too heavy for that.

“Is anyone here?” a voice called from the kitchen.

I jumped up. It was Ramiro, my mom’s older cousin, the one we had always called “Uncle” out of habit. He was forty-eight, with a receding hairline and arms that looked like they had come from another era, back when people trained with weights in the concrete yard. He smelled of cold beer, sun, and a 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 felt.

“Came to get ice, they sent me. But honestly I’m already a little drunk and I don’t feel like heading back right away,” he said, leaning on the kitchen doorframe. “Don’t you have another beer to keep me company?”

I pointed to the fridge and stood there, not quite sure what to do with my body. I had seen him hundreds of times at birthdays and Christmases, always talking a little louder than necessary, always telling old stories nobody had asked for. But that afternoon, with the house empty and the muffled noise of the barbecue coming from across the street, it was different. He was a big man, shirt open two buttons, sweating, taking up almost the entire width of the kitchen.

He took the beer out and sat down on one of the plastic chairs my mother kept against the wall. I leaned against the counter facing him, barefoot on the warm tiles.

“You’re really filling out, huh,” he said, looking me up and down without bothering to hide it. “Last time I saw you, you were still a kid.”

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

“Three months—time goes fast,” he muttered, more to himself than to me.

There was a long silence. I kept staring at his arms, that rounded shape of the biceps, the veins standing out on his forearms when 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 on his chest, over the fabric of his shirt, like someone checking whether a surface is warm.

Ramiro didn’t move. Not a single muscle. He just looked up at me, eyes slightly narrowed from the alcohol and from something else I still didn’t know how to read.

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

“I always used to work out a lot. Back then, I mean. Not so much now.”

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

“Listen, do me a favor?” he said 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 look at it? You’re young.”

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

***

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

I fixed the WhatsApp issue in thirty seconds. Then I kept the phone in my hand, not giving it back, looking for an excuse to stretch the moment.

“Uncle,” I said, and the word sounded ridiculous, “did you really used to go to the gym that much?”

“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 it still shows.”

He laughed, a short laugh that came from his stomach, and pulled off his shirt in one lazy motion. The skin on his torso was lighter than his forearms, streaked with a few gray hairs in the center of his chest. His belly was only slightly puffed from the beer, but his shoulders and pecs were still firm, like they’d been carved from wood the years had polished smooth.

Without thinking, I put 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 low, with a rough voice, and in that second I understood there was no going back. I slid one hand down his stomach, over that line of gray hair splitting his belly in two, and rested it on the bulge in his pants. Ramiro closed his eyes and let the air out through his nose. His cock was rock hard, so hard the fabric could barely contain it. I pressed my palm against it, stroked it up and down over his pants, measuring its length with my fingers.

“Jesus Christ, kid,” he muttered, jaw tight. “If you keep this up I’m going to have to put it in you right here.”

“And why not now?” I answered, my heart pounding in my temples like it wanted out.

***

Ramiro stood in front of me and pulled his pants down to his thighs. Underneath he had on tight white briefs, distorted by the erection, with a dark wet spot of pre-cum at the tip. He pulled them down himself, unhurried, and his cock sprang free, hard, pointing at the ceiling. It was thick, more than I had imagined, veins running along the shaft and the glans swollen, shiny, wet. A tuft of gray hair circled the base. His balls hung heavy, covered in gray fuzz.

I knelt on the rug between his legs, hands on his thighs so I wouldn’t shake as much. It was the first time I had 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 fully close my fingers — and jacked it slowly, feeling the skin slide over that stone-hard length. A thread of clear fluid 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, just guiding me. “Slowly, easy.”

I stuck out my tongue and ran the tip over the glans, tasting the salty flavor of the pre-cum. Then I opened my mouth and took the head of his cock in. I started clumsily. Too much saliva, too much hurry, teeth showing where they shouldn’t. Ramiro didn’t rush me. He kept telling me how, in a whisper: “cover your teeth with your lips,” “breathe through your nose,” “not that deep, like this, like this.” I was learning. I sucked the tip, then slid down as far as I could with my mouth and came back up, sticking out my tongue and coating the shaft with saliva.

“That’s it, that’s it, fuck,” he groaned, letting his neck relax against the wall. “Good, suck it properly.”

Within minutes I had found a rhythm. I held the base with one hand and sucked the tip hungrily, my tongue working his frenulum, lips tight around the shaft. With my other hand I felt his balls, weighed them in my palm, squeezed them softly. Ramiro had his eyes closed, head thrown back, neck veins swollen, mouth open letting out rough breaths.

“Look at me while you suck me,” he asked, and I lifted my eyes without taking his cock out of my mouth. He looked at me like he wanted to devour me whole. He grabbed my neck and pushed me a little farther down until the glans touched the back of my palate and made me gag. He let me breathe, then pushed again. “You’re a little fucking faggot in the making, kid. A textbook faggot.”

My legs were trembling, my knees, even my toes pressed into the rug. The fly of my shorts had bulged from my own erection, and he noticed.

“Come on, stand up. Take everything off.”

I stood and yanked off my shorts and underwear. My cock stood out, smaller than his, thinner, but rock hard and wet at the tip. Ramiro grabbed it and jerked me off two, three times, smiling with half his mouth.

“Small, but all mine, huh.”

He turned me around and pushed me gently against the bed. I braced myself on my knees at the edge, ass in the air, face buried against the sheet. I heard Ramiro spit into his hand and stroke his glans. Then I felt his fingers between my cheeks, parting them, and a wet finger searching for my hole. He pressed there, circled around it, and without warning shoved the fingertip in up to the knuckle. I tensed all over.

“Relax your ass, kid. Breathe.”

He slipped in another finger. I felt a dull burn, uncomfortable, but also a strange cramp rising up my back. He moved them inside, scissoring, opening me. Then he pulled them out, and I felt a much more stubborn, much thicker pressure settling against the entrance. The head of his cock pressing, pushing, trying to get 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 pulling out completely, with the glans barely inside, breathing slowly against my back. At that same moment the back gate rattled and my cousin Aldana’s voice called out from the patio.

“Shit,” Ramiro muttered, and pulled away as if the skin had burned him.

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

“All right, I’m taking the ice,” he said, grabbing the cooler.

Before he left, he looked at me one last time from the hallway. No need to say anything.

***

He came back the next day, during siesta. My mom had gone to collect a pension two blocks away and my dad was asleep with the air conditioning 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 lock my door.”

This time there were no excuses and no conversation. We walked to the room in silence, as if both of us were afraid we’d change our minds if a word got in the way. He locked the door and kissed me for the first time. A rough kiss, smelling of mate and mint, his tongue slipping into my mouth without asking permission, searching for mine and twining with it. It left me breathless. He grabbed my ass over my shorts and pulled me against his body. I felt his cock rising 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 T-shirt. He sucked my nipples, one and then the other, nibbling them until they stood up hard. He went down my stomach, knelt on the rug, and pulled my shorts down with his teeth. When I felt his cock spring up a centimeter from my face, he gave a low laugh and, without saying a word, shoved it all the way into my mouth, down to the base, sucking it like it was candy. I had to grab onto his shoulders so I wouldn’t fall. No one had ever given me oral like that, with that natural ease, with the tongue coiling, cheeks hollowing around the shaft.

“My turn,” I said, my voice shaking.

We switched places. He sat on the edge of the bed and I knelt again, this time with more confidence. I unbuttoned his pants, pulled them down, and took his cock out of the briefs. I put it in my mouth as far as I could, without fear. I ran my tongue along the whole length, from his balls to the tip. I sucked his testicles one by one, took them into my mouth, covered them in saliva. Then I moved up and gave him oral until he had to gently push me away so he wouldn’t cum.

“Stop, stop, if you keep going I’m going to cum,” he gasped, his cock dripping saliva and pre-cum, throbbing in his hand.

He laid me face down on the bed, spread my legs with his knee, and settled in behind me. This time he had brought saliva, spit, a cream he took from his pocket. He put a good amount on his fingers and smeared my hole, circling around it, pressing little by little. He took his time. He prepared me with one finger first, pushing it all the way in, pulling it out, sliding it back in. Then he put in two and scissored them, opening me up.

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

He pulled his fingers out, smeared the cream on his cock, and set the glans against my entrance. He went in slowly, millimeter by millimeter. It burned too, but less. I felt each centimeter as both an intrusion and a welcome at the same time, the head forcing the muscle, then the shaft making its way in, stretching me from the inside. I bit down on the sheet. When he was all the way inside, he stayed still, breathing against my nape, one open hand on my waist, his pelvis pressed to my ass.

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

He started moving. Not too fast, not too slow, as if he were measuring me. Each thrust made me gasp into the mattress. He held my waist with both hands and every so often slid one up to my back, stroking me with his open palm, and other times he dug it into my shoulder to pull me backward while he drove forward. Every time he went all the way in, his pelvis slapped against my ass with a wet sound, and I felt a shiver run down my legs, a strange mix of dull pain and something new, something that felt like pleasure I still didn’t know the name of.

“What a ass you’ve got, Jesus fucking Christ,” he growled, picking up the pace. “Tight as a virgin’s ass.”

He slid a hand underneath and grabbed my cock. He jerked me in the same rhythm as his thrusts. My face was buried in the pillow, mouth open, moaning low so nobody on the other side of the house would hear.

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

He pulled out slowly, and I felt the emptiness. I rolled onto my back. He lifted my legs and hooked them over his shoulders, then settled between them again, slowly, looking me in the eyes. He spat into his hand, smeared the saliva over his cock, and started easing it in. Now it was a different sensation, deeper, with my legs folded against my chest. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, dug my nails into his arms, 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 wouldn’t regret it.

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

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

His face darkened. He started pushing deeper, with long thrusts, pulling almost all the way out and then burying himself back to the balls. The bed creaked. I looked at the line of his jaw, the drops of sweat running from his temple to his chin, his lips parted. Every time he drove in deep, he touched something inside me, a point that shook me whole, that made me grit my teeth and arch my back against the mattress.

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

He grabbed my cock again and jerked me in time with his thrusts. He worked me fast, with his palm slick 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 jets that spattered my stomach and chest, moaning low with my eyes shut. My ass clenched around his cock, and that was the end for him.

“Here I come, here I come,” he panted. “Inside, right? Inside.”

“Inside, yes, come inside.”

He pinned me to the mattress, buried his face in my neck, let out a deep, very low groan, and I felt his cock throbbing inside me, firing hot spurts one after another. He stayed still on top of me, pushing little by little, emptying himself until the last drop. I felt something warm and slippery spilling inside me, much more than I had imagined.

He stayed on top of me for a few seconds, not moving, forehead pressed to mine, his cock still hard and buried in my ass. Then he slowly sat up and eased out little by little. When he was fully out, I felt the semen trickling between my cheeks down to the sheet. He went to the bathroom without saying a word. I stayed sprawled there, staring at the ceiling fan, listening to the tap running. My legs were still open and there was a strange feeling between my thighs, as if only then I was beginning to understand what had happened.

When he came back from the shower, already dressed, he came over to the bed and rested a hand on my shoulder.

“This stays between us,” I said.

“Of course. I’m not telling anyone.”

He kissed my forehead the way a father kisses a sleeping son and left. I heard the car engine start on the street, pull away, turn the corner.

After that I got into the shower and stayed under the water for a long time, feeling the other man’s semen sliding down the inside of my thighs, not quite knowing what I was thinking or what I was feeling. I only knew one thing: the idea of seeing him again at the next family birthday no longer embarrassed me. It made me anticipate it.