My First Time with a Construction Worker in the Bar Bathroom

My story begins in June 2018. I was twenty-six at the time and living with that uncomfortable contradiction of loving men and coming from a family that prayed the rosary three times a week. In my house, talking about sex was a sin, and talking about homosexuality simply didn’t happen. As if naming the thing would bring it into the living room. The adults pretended not to notice, and the younger ones learned to keep quiet.

I had had a few brushes with guys my own age. Clumsy hands in dark rooms, quick kisses in a friend’s car, the occasional rushed blowjob in a club bathroom. Nothing that deserved the name experience. That’s why, when I think about my real first time, I think of that hot February night and the construction worker from my sister’s bar.

Physically, I never considered myself a looker. I’m stocky without being fat, with a bit of a belly but strong arms, brown hair, honey-colored eyes, skin that turns red at the first ray of sun. Since I was a kid, I’ve been turned on by smooth torsos, men older than me, the ones who seemed to know what they were doing. I discovered gay porn at eighteen, and from then on it was my secret companion: I’d spend hours locked in the bathroom with my phone, watching big guys split open kids like me, and jerking off thinking that one day it would be my turn.

Back then I worked on a construction site in the south of the city. We were building an apartment block on the main avenue, and the crew was a world unto itself: crude jokes, mate shared in whatever shady corner you could find, talk bouncing back and forth about women and soccer. I was reserved. Not out of fear of being laughed at, but out of habit. But on that site, I don’t know why, one morning I blurted out what I usually never did.

—I’m into men —I said, almost without thinking, in the middle of a joke about the women from the neighborhood.

I thought there would be an awkward silence. I thought one of them might pick a fight. None of that happened. What happened was worse, and also better: from that moment on, my coworkers started throwing innuendos at me all the time. Some as a joke, others not so much. And among the crew there was a family of five brothers who worked together on the site, all of them dark-haired, all of them very masculine, all of them with that neighborhood roughness you can’t buy.

Two of them caught my eye. One was all mouth: Lautaro, the youngest, around twenty-two, spoke to me straight on, no filter.

—I’d fuck you whenever you want, tell me when and let’s go —he’d say laughing, but his eyes weren’t laughing—. I’ll smash your ass against the wall and leave you walking crooked for a week.

The other one was different. Older than him, in his early thirties, thick around the middle, quiet. His name was Damián and he had these sea-green eyes that seemed to belong on a different face. I knew nothing was going to happen with Damián. He was the serious one, the family man, the one who stayed for double shifts when someone was missing. Until it happened.

The rumor that I liked macho men spread fast. In a week, everyone on the site knew. And two weeks later it reached my sister’s bar, a small joint in a western neighborhood where we gathered on Fridays to drink beer after work. It was the kind of old-school place: wooden counter, old mirrors, a jukebox that only knew how to play cumbia. My sister Carolina ran it with the help of her boyfriend.

***

That February night, almost all the brothers were there. So was Damián. It was a Friday with sticky heat, and the beer wasn’t enough to cool you off. I was sitting at a table against the wall, talking to another coworker who had made it his job to mediate between Damián and me.

—Look —he told me, lowering his voice—. If you want to fuck him, go ahead. I’m not saying anything. Nobody here will find out.

He said it like that, seriously. I laughed because I didn’t know what to do with that information. I looked at Damián, who was at the bar with a glass in his hand, looking the other way as if the conversation had nothing to do with him. But he was listening. I found that out later.

Just for the hell of it, I told the mediator:

—Tell him if he wants anything, he should follow me to the bathroom.

I said it convinced it was a bluff. I was sure the guy wasn’t going to move. I stood up, grabbed my phone, and walked to the back of the hallway. The bar bathroom was at the end, behind a green-painted sheet metal door. It was a tiny bathroom, one stall, with a toilet, a sink, and a fluorescent tube light that flickered. It smelled like old cigarette smoke and cheap disinfectant.

I closed the door, leaned against the sink, and breathed. I thought about turning back. I thought about washing my hands, going out, and acting like nothing had happened. And then I heard footsteps. Heavy, slow footsteps, the kind of steps from someone who wasn’t backing out.

The door opened and Damián came in. He locked it behind him without saying a word. The tube light painted both of us blue. He was taller than me, thick, yes, but solid, with that solidity of men who carry fifty-kilo sacks of cement as if they were pillows. His black T-shirt was damp on the back and he smelled like sweat mixed with cheap cologne, which wasn’t unpleasant at all.

—Well? —he said.

I was speechless. I started laughing nervously, that kind of laughter that comes when you don’t know where to put yourself.

—I’m embarrassed —I blurted out, covering my face with my hands.

It wasn’t exactly embarrassment. It was nerves.

It was the first time I was going to be with a grown man, not a guy my own age. And it was happening in the bathroom of my sister’s bar, fifteen meters from the counter, with Carolina pouring beers on the other side of the hall. Any customer who opened the wrong door could get us into a huge mess.

—If you want, we can go out and pretend nothing happened —he said, and his voice sounded kinder than I expected.

No. I didn’t want to go out. I shook my head and knelt in front of him. The tile floor was cold and sticky, and my knees cracked when they hit, but I didn’t care.

—What do you want me to do? —he asked.

—Take your pants off —I said.

He did, but not all the way. He left them halfway down his thigh, ready to yank them back up if someone grabbed the door. He had white briefs that he also pulled down only as far as needed. And there he was: clean, freshly shaved, with skin that was surprisingly pale compared to the rest of his body. His cock hung heavy, thick even half-hard, with a prominent vein running the length of it up to a pink head peeking out from under the foreskin. His balls, large, shaved smooth, pressed against the base. He still wasn’t hard. Not fully.

I took it in my right hand. It was hot and heavy, much heavier than I had imagined. The skin was smooth, taut, and at the first movement I felt the muscle underneath start to wake up. I began stroking him slowly, my whole hand closed around him, looking him in the face. Damián had his jaw clenched and his green eyes fixed on me. He wasn’t smiling. He was serious, focused, like when a mason is about to put his trowel into a mix and doesn’t want to waste a thing.

—Start —he said, his voice a little rougher.

I took him into my mouth. He grew immediately. Grew so much I was surprised: my mouth filled with hard, hot flesh, pushing against my palate and my tongue until I felt the head bumping the back of my throat. In my neighborhood we have a word for guys like that: they’ve got an iron rod. And Damián had an iron rod, long and thick, that barely fit in all the way. Because of nerves and inexperience, I accidentally bit him. He reacted with a muffled groan.

—Easy, no biting —he said, putting his hand on the back of my neck, gently, without pressing—. Slowly. Suck with your lips, not your teeth.

I did as he said. I covered my teeth with my lips, opened wider, started breathing through my nose like I’d seen in the videos. I pulled him all the way out, strings of saliva hanging between my lips and the tip, and slid him back in little by little, letting him rest on my tongue. I licked him all over, running my tongue from the base to the tip, tracing the thick vein that stood out underneath. Then I went lower and kissed his balls and discovered they were shaved too. I sucked them one by one, taking them into my mouth carefully, and he let out a “holy fuck” that was the first thing he’d said in a long while. Something about that detail—the neatness, the care, the suspicion that this wasn’t the first time another man had handled him—made me slowly lose my embarrassment.

I went back to the cock. This time, I wanted it. I sucked him from top to bottom, my hand helping where my mouth couldn’t reach. Saliva dripped down my chin and wet his balls. Every time I took him all the way out, I held him in my hand and ran my tongue over the tip, sucking the bead of salty fluid that showed at the little hole. Then I took him back in, each time a little deeper, forcing myself to hold back gagging when the head hit the back of my throat.

I heard him moan softly. Then a little louder. The hand he had on my neck tightened slightly. He started setting the rhythm with a tiny movement of his hips, almost imperceptible, as if he was afraid of making noise but couldn’t help himself. He shoved his cock into my mouth in short, controlled thrusts, and I let him do it, my eyes tearing up and my jaw open.

—You’re a good little cock-sucker —he told me softly, almost to himself—. Look at how much you’re drooling.

The phrase hit me low in the belly like a punch. I felt my own cock hard inside my pants, soaking my briefs. I upped the stakes: I grabbed his ass with both hands and pushed him against my face, swallowing as much as I could, choking a little each time.

We went on like that for a few minutes, I don’t know how many. And then we heard footsteps in the hallway.

Both of us froze. Damián pulled up his briefs and pants in two quick moves, wrestling to get his hard cock back inside, and I stood up as best I could, with red knees and a swollen mouth, strands of saliva still hanging from my chin. The footsteps kept going. It was someone heading to the kitchen, not the bathroom. False alarm.

—Continue? —he asked, breathless now.

—Obviously.

I wasn’t about to miss this because of a scare.

***

He leaned against the wall and I knelt down again. I pulled his cock out once more, still hard, still shining with my saliva, and sucked him for a few more minutes, now with more confidence, letting him shove it all the way to the back. I squeezed his balls with one hand while holding on to his thigh with the other. But after a while he yanked my hair up and said:

—I want your ass.

The word made me smile, the way he said it, almost like a kid asking for candy. But I understood perfectly.

I stood up. I pulled my pants and briefs down to my ankles, feeling my own cock bouncing hard against my belly. I braced both hands on the sink and offered him my ass, arching my back to spread it open. I heard him spit into his hand two, three times, and felt his rough fingers opening me, spreading the spit around my hole. One finger went in first, thick, callused and all, and made me clench my teeth. He moved it in circles, trying to loosen me up, and then he slid in the second. That’s when I let out a loud groan, my forehead pressed against the mirror.

—Hang on —he told me—. You’re going to take it just fine.

He pulled his fingers out and spit again, this time directly on the crease of my ass. The spit ran cold down to my balls. Then I felt the head of his cock resting at the entrance, wide, round, pushing. The first thrust was hard. It went in with one short but determined shove, and opened me like nothing ever had in my life. It hurt so much a cry slipped out of me and I had to bite my lip to keep from yelling.

—Slower —I begged him, my voice shaking.

He listened right away. He slowed down, stayed still inside me, letting me feel the thickness, waited until I adjusted and then pushed again more gently. Little by little I loosened up. The second entry was less rough, the third almost good, and by the fifth he was burying himself all the way in until I could feel his balls hitting me from behind. And when he was fully inside, Damián moaned against the back of my neck with a sound I’ll never forget: a mix of pleasure and disbelief, as if he still couldn’t quite believe where he was.

—What a tight ass you’ve got, motherfucker —he said with his mouth against my ear—. What a tight ass. You’re milking my cock.

He held my hips with both hands. His hands were rough from masonry, callused, hot. Sometimes he yanked my hair until my back arched, driving him in deeper. Sometimes he put two fingers in my mouth and I sucked them like they were his cock, saliva dripping down my chin. Sometimes he slapped my ass cheek, the sound echoing in the bathroom, and he whispered things in my ear, things that weren’t romantic or tender but which, in that moment, in that bathroom, turned me on more than anything I’d ever felt.

—Little bar slut —he murmured, thrusting hard but keeping his voice down—. Look where we came to fuck. With your sister pouring beer out there. If she saw how wide open I’ve got you.

I had my face smashed against the fogged-up mirror, watching my own open, drooling mouth in the reflection while he fucked me with thrusts that got longer and longer. I asked him to slam me harder and he obeyed. He started fucking me at a steady rhythm, thump, thump, thump, grabbing me by the waist, and the sound of his thighs hitting my ass was so loud I was afraid it would be heard from the hallway. My ass was dripping with saliva mixed with who knows what else, and with each thrust there was that wet, filthy sound of flesh against flesh.

—I can take it —I told him, saying the kind of thing you only say in a moment like that.

—I know —he said, laughing—. I know you can take it. You’re a little bitch.

I grabbed my own cock with my right hand and started jerking off in time with the way he was fucking me. It was rock hard and dripping pre-cum onto the tiles. Every time he buried himself all the way in, I gave my own cock a little tug, and within a minute I felt it all building. I clamped my ass against the walls and let out a long, stifled moan as I came against the sink wall in thick spurts that slammed into the white tile and ran down to the baseboard.

Damián felt me clench and laughed softly into my neck.

—You came, little faggot. Now hold out for me.

And he kept pounding me, now faster, careless, with short, furious thrusts. He grabbed my hair with one hand and my hip with the other and hammered into me against the sink until I felt him getting even harder inside, swollen, throbbing. When he was about to finish, he yanked his cock out all at once, spun me around by the shoulders, and jerked off two, three times in front of my face. His cum shot out, thick and white, and painted my cheek, my lips, my chin. One jet landed on the chest of my T-shirt.

—Suck —he said, panting, and shoved the head into my mouth so I could clean off the last drops.

I licked him with my tongue out, taking off the very last trace, tasting the salty, thick flavor, and he shuddered with every stroke. Then he ran his thumb over my face, gathered what had stuck to my cheek, and put it in my mouth. I swallowed it without hesitation.

We went into the bathroom at eleven twenty-five. We came out at eleven fifty-five. Thirty long, counted minutes in which everything that had to happen happened, and almost everything I had imagined on the nights I jerked off thinking about him.

When he asked if I was done, I said yes. I had already come against the sink tiles, and I could still taste him in my throat. He got his clothes in order, ran his fingers through his hair, wet his face, and opened the door like nothing had happened. I wiped my face with toilet paper, rinsed my mouth in the sink, and looked at myself in the mirror: my lips were swollen, my eyes bright, and a smear of semen was still drying on the neck of my T-shirt, which I covered with my hair. I came out thirty seconds later. Carolina was serving a pitcher of beer and didn’t even look at us. Lautaro stared at me from the other end of the bar with a crooked smile that said he had done his math, and all I could do was smile back.

***

—Want a ride? —Damián asked me at the bar door, helmet already in hand.

I climbed on behind his motorcycle. The night air hit my face and woke me up the rest of the way. I held onto his waist, still feeling the heat between my legs and the sting of my fucked-open ass, his cum sliding down the inside of my thigh, and I laughed to myself. He fucked like an animal. After that night I walked funny for two days, and every time I sat down on the site I remembered the weight of his cock driving me against the sink.

Nothing happened with Damián again. We stayed on good terms, said hello on the job site, had a beer if we happened to cross paths on a Friday. Later I found out it wasn’t his first time by any means: he’d been with other guys like me, quiet ones, on earlier sites, in other bathrooms. And I ended up with two of his relatives later on, a brother and a nephew, but that’s another story for another day.

I still remember that first time with every detail. The smell of disinfectant, the flickering tube light, Damián’s weight against my back, the taste of his load in my mouth. And the feeling that after so many years of keeping quiet, I had finally dared to say what I was. And that the neighborhood, against everything I had been taught, hadn’t fallen apart because of it.