My Second Night with That Man Was the Last

If you read what happened the first time with Adrián, this is the ending. The second part. The one I took a while to tell because it took me a while to understand what had really happened between us.

Months had gone by since that night without me talking to him again. I had blocked him everywhere after our last argument, not because he had done anything bad to me, but because the way he wrote to me made me uncomfortable. Too sweet. Too attentive. I had been clear from day one, but it seemed he heard what he wanted to hear.

Until one afternoon, coming back from the gym, I saw his name on my phone. Adrián. He had found a way to write to me from another number.

—Hi, I missed you. I just wanted to know how you were.

I read it twice. Deleted it. Opened it again in the deleted folder. Replied.

From there we picked up the usual thing again. Long conversations that started as one thing and ended as another. I told him what I was up to, I talked to him about the girl I was seeing at the time, a blonde from Almagro who had me pretty entertained. And he listened, even though I knew every word hurt him a little.

Then came the hot chats. The kind where I’d send him voice notes in the middle of the night, after leaving a bar, horny and alone, with my hand inside my boxer briefs and my cock hard against my palm. The ones where he answered with details only he knew how to give me: how he was going to suck my dick slowly, how he was going to open my ass with his tongue before putting it in, how he was going to make me come twice in the same night. When we talked like that, I liked it. When he talked to me with love again, I pulled away.

From the start I had been honest with him. From day one. I didn’t want a relationship. What I had with men was sexual. Morbid curiosity. Desire for the forbidden, for what doesn’t get talked about. Adrenaline. Horniness. Nothing more.

In my everyday life I go out with women. I have a good time. I fall in love, I fall out of love, I do what any guy my age does. But there’s something about being with a man, especially an older man who’s twenty-something years older than me, that turns me on in a way I don’t even understand and don’t need to understand either. Something about feeling an adult cock opening me up, thick hands gripping my hips, a beard scraping my ass. No woman gives me that.

Adrián was that kind of man.

We drifted apart a couple more times. The dynamic was always the same: chats, arousal, verbal sex, he fell a little more in love, I got scared, I left him on read for a week. Then he’d send me a long message, I’d avoid him for two days, and on the third day I’d answer apologizing. And we’d start over.

Until one Saturday I looked for him.

I’m not really sure why I did it. Truth is, I regret it, because I know I hurt his feelings and that wasn’t what I wanted. But that day I happened to be near his place, I had plans with a friend four blocks away, and my head played a bad trick on me. I texted him.

—I’m around here. Want me to stop by and say hi?

He replied in two minutes.

—Come whenever you want. I’m alone.

***

His apartment was the same as the first time. Third floor walk-up, an old dark wood door, a little dog barking on the other side that he made shut up with a click of his tongue. When he opened the door, I looked at him for a second. He was thinner. His beard was whiter. He had glasses he hadn’t worn before. But the eyes were the same. That mix of calm and contained desire that had hooked me two years earlier.

—Come in. I’ll make you coffee.

I went in. I sat on the same couch where the first time I had ended up with my T-shirt over my face and his cock all the way down my throat. While he made the coffee, I looked at the walls. He had added a couple of paintings. New plants. A different order. The house of a man who lives alone and, over the years, got used to being okay with that.

We talked about work. About family. About how things had gone with the Almagro girl (badly). About his sister, who had moved south. About the dog, who was eleven and could barely see anymore. None of what we said mattered. We both knew why I had come.

After the two cups of coffee, he sat down next to me.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did I. He rested a hand on my leg, above the knee, and left it there. I let him. He moved it up. Slowly. Without rushing. When he got to my crotch, I was already hard and we both knew it. He squeezed my cock over my jeans, feeling it throb against the fabric, and let out a long sigh, almost of relief.

—I thought you wouldn’t come back —he said quietly.

—I thought that too.

He kissed me. His beard scraped my chin and the sensation brought everything from the first time rushing back at once. The smell of his cologne, the weight of his hand on the back of my neck, the way he kissed calmly, as if he had all the time in the world, sliding his tongue to the back of my mouth and sucking my lower lip between his teeth. With his other hand he was already unfastening my jeans, and when he pulled the zipper down he slipped his hand inside my boxer briefs and grabbed my cock directly, skin against skin. A moan slipped out into his mouth.

—You’re rock hard —he murmured against my neck, while he jerked me off slowly, pressing his thumb hard at the base.

At twenty-nine, nobody kisses you like that. Only older men know how to kiss like that, and know how to touch your cock like that, without rushing, as if they remember every inch.

We went to the bedroom without saying anything.

I took my T-shirt off. He took his shirt off. He had more gray hair on his chest than the last time, and his skin was a little softer, but his hands were still firm. He shoved me onto the bed and climbed on top of me. He finished taking off my jeans and boxer briefs in one pull and there I was, naked, with my hard cock dripping against my stomach. He knelt between my legs and stared at it for a few seconds, with that hungry look I knew so well.

—Do you have everything? —I asked.

—In the drawer. But first I’m going to suck you off.

And he bent down. He grabbed me by the base and took the whole thing into his mouth at once, until I felt the tip press against the back of his throat. Then he came back up slowly, sucking like hell, keeping his tongue pressed against the vein underneath. He went down again. And again. A slow, deep rhythm, with his free hand stroking my balls and playing with the skin of my perineum. I was already trembling.

—Stop, stop —I told him, grabbing his hair—. If you keep going like that I’m going to come in your mouth.

He lifted his face, his lips shiny with spit and a string of it running down his beard.

—Come. We’ll get you hard again after.

But I didn’t let him. I pushed him up on the bed and unfastened his pants myself. I pulled them down with his briefs. There was the cock I remembered, thick, slightly curved upward, with big balls hanging. I grabbed it, sucked it for a while too, more by reflex than technique, hearing him moan softly above me. Then he laid me face down and opened my ass with both hands.

***

The second time was better than the first. And the first had been good.

Better because there were no nerves anymore. Better because we both knew what the other liked. Better because I didn’t have to ask him for anything, or explain anything, or guide him. He did what he knew drove me crazy. He grabbed my hair. He bit my neck. He licked my back lower and didn’t stop there: he spread my cheeks and put his tongue in my ass, first with the tip, then all of it, circling it, spitting, sucking my hole until it was soaked and throbbing. I pressed my face into the pillow and begged him not to stop, my voice muffled, pushing my ass against his mouth.

He prepped me with a patience I didn’t know anyone had. One finger first, with cold lube, all the way in, searching for my prostate with his fingertip. When he found it, the man underneath had his whole leg trembling and I let out a long moan. Then two fingers. He worked them in scissors, pulled them out, pushed them back in, while with his other hand he kept jerking me off from below. Three fingers. By then I was already begging him.

—Put it in already. Come on, put it in now.

I heard the tear of the condom wrapper. I felt it pressed against my hole, thick, hot, pushing in little by little. When it entered, it did so slowly, centimeter by centimeter, giving me time to adjust to the girth. I ran out of air for a second. Then he let his hips loose and pushed all the way in, and I felt his balls smack against mine.

—There it is —he said, voice rough, gripping my waist—. That ass is mine again.

He started moving. Slowly at first. Then hard. Then slowly again, setting the rhythm as if he were playing an instrument only he could read. He pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in with one sharp thrust, making me bounce against the mattress. With every thrust a sharper moan escaped me. The bed creaked. I bit the pillow.

He fucked me pretty hard. Harder than I remembered. He grabbed my hair and pulled my head back, forcing my spine to arch, and from there he buried himself even deeper. He slid his other hand around to the front and grabbed my cock, started jerking me off at the same rhythm he was fucking me. I gripped the pillow with both hands and begged him not to stop, and he didn’t stop, and I didn’t want it to end ever.

—Come for me —he whispered in my ear, his beard scraping my cheek—. Come with my cock inside you, come on.

And I came. A long, hot stream that stained my stomach and the sheets, while my ass clenched around his cock in spasms. My legs were shaking. Everything was shaking. He kept fucking me a little longer, taking advantage of how my ass tightened after the orgasm, and after a few more thrusts he sank all the way in, clenched his teeth, and came inside the condom with a low, long moan, almost of pain.

But it was over.

Two years had passed since that first time. He was fifty-four then, fifty-six now, and it showed. Not in how he grabbed me, or how he bit me, or how he made me bite the pillow so I wouldn’t shout. It showed in the duration. It lasted less. A lot less. The first time had been an entire night, with pauses, with breaks, with second and third rounds, with his cock getting hard again as soon as you touched it. This time it was just once, intense, short, and then he was lying on his back with one arm over his eyes and breathing deeply, his cock softening against his thigh, still wearing the condom and full of semen.

I stayed staring at the ceiling, with my semen drying on my stomach and my ass throbbing.

Poor guy. And me acting like I didn’t notice.

—You can’t imagine how much I missed you —he said after a while.

I didn’t answer.

—This isn’t going to happen again, right? —he insisted.

I turned my face and looked at him. His eyes were a little wet. I didn’t know if it was from exhaustion or something else.

—I don’t know —I lied.

But I did know.

***

I showered in his bathroom. Used his towel. Got dressed in silence while he watched me from the bed, not moving, not getting up, not making the effort to pretend this was anything more. When I was ready, I sat for a second on the edge of the mattress.

—I love you —I told him. And it was true. In my own way, I loved him. I loved him the way you love someone who was good to you twice in your life and doesn’t deserve to be used a third time.

He nodded. Said nothing.

I hugged him. I kissed his forehead. I left his house with my hair still damp and walked to the corner with my phone in my hand, thinking whether it was better to text him something then or wait until I got home.

I waited.

That night I sent him a long message. I thanked him. I apologized. I told him we weren’t going to see each other again, and that this time I meant it. I explained what I already knew: that what I had was sexual, and what he had was love, and that the difference between the two, when it’s that big, doesn’t get fixed with good intentions.

It took him hours to reply.

—It’s okay. Thank you for being honest. Take care.

Three lines. Cold. He deserved them.

We never spoke again.

Sometimes, when I pass through his neighborhood on my way to somewhere else, I look up, searching for the third-floor window. Not to go up. Just to remember. To remind myself that there was once, actually twice, when a man twenty-five years older than me made me understand something about desire that I hadn’t understood before. And that later I, who understood that, didn’t know how to understand what he felt.

That’s why the healthiest thing was to leave him alone.

That’s why it was the last time.