The Ad That Led Me to Move in with a Stranger

That winter I felt trapped in my own body. I lived in a rented room at the back of an old house, worked half shifts at a bakery, and spent my nights browsing the internet looking for something I didn’t even know how to name. I was twenty-two, skinny, hairless, and had never been with a man more than once. The idea of a partner—something stable, someone who would call me «my love»—seemed like a fantasy reserved for other people.

One July morning, browsing personal ads on a forum without much interest, I found one written in capital letters: «LOOKING FOR PASSIVE YOUNG MAN FOR SERIOUS RELATIONSHIP. I DON’T PLAY GAMES». It amused me and, at the same time, stopped me in my tracks. I read it twice. The user’s name was Andrés.

I wrote to him from a new account. I told him I was twenty, that I was studying nursing, and that I had lived alone since I was seventeen. None of it was true, but I figured those lies would make him smile. I sent him three photos saved on my phone: one of me looking over my shoulder, another of my bare torso in front of the bathroom mirror, and the third—the one that had been hardest for me—a shot of me from behind, crouched against the bed, my ass well defined beneath my white underwear.

Andrés replied twenty minutes later.

—You’re exactly what I’ve been looking for —he wrote—. Do you have someone to live with?

I told him yes, that I lived with my uncle. A lie.

—Move in with me. I’ll pay for the taxi.

I read that sentence four times before replying. He was thirty-two, lived on the top floor of a building in the port district, and, according to what he told me, had been alone for more than a year. The speed of it all was ridiculous. I knew that. But I also knew that absolutely no one was waiting for me in my rented room and that, for once, someone seemed to be waiting for me.

I gathered what I had into two grocery bags.

***

The taxi arrived at two-thirty in the morning. I climbed the four flights on foot because the elevator was out of order. On the landing, before ringing the bell, I looked at the neighboring doors. They all had clotheslines strung with baby clothes, underwear, damp sheets. It smelled of cheap detergent and cold food.

Andrés opened the door wearing a tank top. The photo of his chest he had sent me hadn’t done him justice: he was shorter than I’d imagined, broad-shouldered, his arms covered in black hair, his face marked by old acne scars. He wasn’t the person I’d wanted him to be. But I was already there, with two bags and no way back.

—Come in —he said, and carried my bags as though they weighed nothing.

The apartment was one large room with a kitchen at the back. The bed was unmade, the windows had black fabric curtains, and on the nightstand there was an empty beer can and a box of disposable tissues. While I put my things on the floor, I felt him watching me from behind. It wasn’t an innocent look. It was the look of a man who was already undressing me with his eyes, who was already mentally opening my ass before touching me.

I stuck my ass out a little, just barely, pretending to adjust my backpack. When I turned around, he was already hugging me.

He kissed me like no one had ever kissed me before. His lips were soft, unhurried, biting me slowly. He put his entire tongue inside my mouth and stirred it around with obscene calm, as if he were gradually testing how much he could put in me without making me choke. I felt his bulge growing against my hip, hard and heavy, pressing at me from outside his pants. He whispered something I didn’t quite understand and lifted me into his arms with an ease that left me dazed. I had never been with anyone capable of lifting me like that, effortlessly. He laid me on the bed, pulled off my T-shirt, yanked down my pants and underwear in one motion, and spent a long while looking at me as if it were the first time he had ever seen someone naked. My cock was hard, small and stiff against my belly; his was still trapped beneath the fabric of his pants, and the bulge was so pronounced that I was afraid to look at it directly.

—Turn around —he asked—. I want to see your ass.

I did. I got down on all fours and lowered my head against the pillow, offering him my arched asshole. Andrés talked to me while he stroked my back with both hands, then moved down to my buttocks, pulling them apart with his thumbs so he could see my hole up close. He said things that would have sounded ridiculous from anyone else, but in his mouth they sounded true: that I had the prettiest ass he’d seen in months, that he could see a tight little rose that made him want to slowly blow it apart, that he would take care of me, that I shouldn’t worry. He ran his whole tongue from my perineum to the base of my spine, broad and hot, and I jumped against the pillow. He did it again. This time he stopped at my hole and licked it in circles, sinking the tip in, spitting on me, coating me in saliva until I felt a thread run down over my balls. When I heard him take off his pants, I tensed.

***

I looked at him between my legs almost from the corner of my eye, and my breath caught. He was thick and long, much more than any photo had prepared me for. His cock stood up against his navel, veined, its purple head shining with precum. His balls hung heavily beneath it, covered in the same black hair that climbed up his belly. My hands felt cold.

—I’ve never tried one that size —I told him.

Andrés laughed softly.

—Don’t worry, my love. The ass adapts. Every little ass adapts when you warm it up properly.

He gently pushed me so I would open my legs again and lowered his face toward me. He kissed my neck, my shoulders, the base of my spine, my thighs. He sucked my nipples one by one until they were hard as stones, barely biting them, tugging with his teeth, looking me in the eyes as he did it. Then he took my little cock in his whole hand and stroked it with clumsy tenderness, sliding my foreskin up and down, squeezing my balls, playing with me as if I were a toy he had just been given. I let him. One part of me was still looking for an excuse to leave. The other was completely surrendered, my cock dripping against my belly and my legs spread wide open.

He put it in my mouth before anywhere else. He knelt on the mattress, grabbed the back of my head with both hands, and guided me toward his cock. It was heavy and salty, and I could barely take it in. The head wouldn’t fit all the way; my lips stretched as far as they could to let it pass. While I tried to suck him off as best I could, he squeezed the back of my head and told me to breathe through my nose, to go slowly, to open my mouth wider, to stick out my tongue, to lick him from his balls to the tip. He moved my head to his rhythm. When I sucked his balls, he put them in my mouth one by one and made me suck them hungrily. When I went back to eating his cock, he pushed it a little deeper each time, until I felt the head touch my throat and I gagged. A thick string of saliva and drool hung from my chin to my chest. My eyes filled with tears, and not from sadness.

—That’s it, my love, that’s how you suck a cock —he told me, gripping my hair—. Like a little slut. Look at me while you suck it.

I looked up at him from below, my mouth full, drool running down me, and he smiled like someone who already knew he had me.

—Turn around again —he said when he grew tired of watching.

He opened my legs with a firm gesture. He spat into his hand, spread saliva over his entire cock, and pressed the head against my asshole. He tried twice. Both times my nerves made it slip away, sliding against my perineum and bumping into my balls. I squeezed my thighs together without meaning to; my fingers clenched against the sheets. Andrés pulled away for a moment, opened the nightstand drawer, and came back with a jar of petroleum jelly. Without looking at me, he smeared himself generously, wrapping his entire cock in his right hand until it shone. Then he ran his fingers over my ass, slowly, in circles, until I stopped backing away. First one, halfway in. Then the knuckle. Then the whole finger. When he put in a second, he curled it inside me and touched something that made me let out a new, high-pitched, involuntary moan. He laughed.

—There, my darling. There it is. That’s the button.

When he put it inside me, he did it slowly. Inch by inch. I felt my walls give way, and at the same time I felt that something inside me was about to split apart. The head opened my ring with a sharp burning sensation, and then came the shaft, thick and unstoppable, pushing inward with the slowness of a threat. I bit the pillow. He spoke into my ear, his mouth pressed against the back of my neck.

—Breathe, breathe hard. That’s it. Relax your little ass, don’t squeeze it so much. Like that. Almost there. A little more. You’re doing well, my love.

When his testicles struck my ass, I knew there was nothing left to enter. He stayed still for a few seconds, giving me time, buried to the root. I felt his cock pulsing inside me against my walls, a hot beat marking the rhythm of his heart inside my body. Then he began to move. Slowly at first, pulling almost all the way out and sinking back in with a deep thrust, then settling into a steadier rhythm, one hand braced on my waist and the other against the back of my neck, keeping my head pressed to the mattress. The sound of his balls hitting my perineum, the wet slapping of the petroleum jelly, his breathing against my ear, all of it blended together. I wasn’t enjoying it yet. I was enduring it, jaw clenched, tears running down the sides of my face. But the mixture of pain with those words of love—because he kept calling me «my love», «my darling», «my boy» between thrusts—pulled me out of my body and carried me somewhere new. At some point, without realizing it, I began pushing my ass backward to meet him. At some point the pain became something else: a thick, confused heat rising from the tip of my prostate to the back of my neck. I began to moan, first into the pillow, then with my mouth open against the sheets.

—There’s my little slut —he whispered—. There you are, with your little ass open for me.

***

That was when I remembered Eduardo. The one from the previous summer, the one who had locked me in a hotel room and come inside me twice in a row without asking me anything. The one who had fucked me with my face against the mattress, squeezing the back of my neck, snorting insults, without pulling out even when he finished. The one who had left me out on the street at six in the morning, my ass dripping with semen inside my pants and my mouth dry. I hadn’t thought about him in months. And suddenly, beneath Andrés, everything came back: the fear, the shame, the urge to run.

But Andrés wasn’t Eduardo. Andrés kissed my back while he moved. He slowly bit my ear. He asked if I was all right, if I could keep going, if I wanted him to be gentler or harder. He reached underneath me, grabbed my little cock, and masturbated me in the same rhythm he fucked me, until I began trembling in his hand. He made me turn onto my back without pulling out, lifted my legs against his chest, and sank into me from the front again, looking into my eyes. I watched his belly contract with every thrust, his hairy chest gleaming with sweat, his jaw tense. He grabbed my ankles, spread me open like a frog, and drove into me all the way, holding me there, with a tender cruelty that made me scream the first time I felt myself coming without touching my cock.

—Come, come for me —he said—. Come on my belly, I want to see you.

I came like that, with his cock inside me, without a single caress on my own, in thin spurts that splashed my navel and chest. My ass clenched around him in a long spasm, and that was when I heard him grunt for the first time.

When he came inside me, he didn’t even try to pull out. I felt his cock swell for one more moment, and then the hot, long, dense stream rising inside me to a place I hadn’t known existed. He came with his teeth clenched against my neck, moaning filthy things in my ear, his hips pressed against mine so he wouldn’t lose a drop.

—Wait —he said when I begged him to pull it out—. If I move, more will come out. Wait a little.

I waited. And he came again, or that was what it seemed like, because I felt a new heat spreading to the base of my belly, and he gave a short shudder against me, gripping my hips with both hands as if he meant to empty himself to the very end. When he finally pulled out, his cock emerged covered in thick milk, followed by a thread that dripped from my perineum onto the sheets. I saw a mixture of semen and a thin thread of blood on the sheets. I began to cry. Not from the pain: the pain was almost gone. I cried for Eduardo, for the unfamiliar apartment, for the two bags lying on the floor, for the speed with which my life had just changed.

Andrés hugged me from behind, pressed his soft, sticky cock against my open ass, and told me something else I hadn’t expected.

—I love you, you know?

It was the first night. He didn’t know me. He didn’t know my last name. And yet he said it with such certainty that I believed him. I hugged him too. I whispered that he was the biggest one I’d ever tried, that no one had ever filled my ass like that. Andrés laughed softly.

—I know, my love. I know. And this is every day.

As I fell asleep on my stomach, with his chest against my back and his milk still leaking from inside my ass, I felt him reach for his cell phone. Then there were a couple of very brief flashes, like muted camera flashes. That night I didn’t think anything of it. Later, I would think about it more than once.

***

I put up with Andrés for almost two years. Put up with him, because I can’t find a better word. It wasn’t that I loved him as much as I convinced myself I did. He was comfortable, he was constant, he gave me a roof and food and, above all, he spoke to me in a language I had never heard before: the language of sweet words, pet names, long-term plans. He fucked me every night, and many mornings. He sucked me off on the couch while I watched television, slipped his fingers inside me with petroleum jelly before bed so he could always keep me ready, made me ride him with my legs spread and my hands braced against his hairy chest until drool ran from my mouth with pleasure. We fucked in parks at dawn, my ass pressed against a bench and his cock sticking out beneath my lowered pants; we fucked in bar bathrooms, the door bolted while people outside ordered beer; in borrowed cars, my head pressed against the roof and my knees tight against the seat; in motels off the highway, with torn curtains and the air conditioner buzzing. He liked sex outdoors, liked sticking his cock into me in any filthy corner, leaving my ass dripping with semen in places where people might see us, and I went along with him even though half the time I didn’t dare. I accepted many things I didn’t want to accept. I accepted that he sometimes brought a friend over and made me kneel between them to suck their cocks in turns. I also accepted that he looked at other boys on the street. That he took a long time to answer messages. That he showed up with marks on his neck that weren’t mine, and smelling of another body between his legs when I kissed him in the crotch.

One November night, waiting for him in a café near the port, I saw him enter on the other side of the avenue. He was walking arm in arm with a very tall girl, with long hair, a tight dress, and heels. He didn’t recognize me through the glass. I followed them for two blocks.

She was trans. I knew immediately, not because of her body—she was spectacular, much prettier than many women I know—but because she spoke to Andrés with a familiarity no first date could have. She squeezed his bulge over his pants in the middle of the sidewalk, laughed, bit his neck. They had been together for a while. Maybe months. Maybe for as long as I had believed he belonged to me.

***

That same morning I confronted him in the kitchen. I yelled at him, broke two glasses, and said things I’m not capable of repeating right now. Andrés listened to me until the end, sitting in a chair, without raising his voice once. When I finished, he poured me a glass of water and said slowly:

—I want you out of here tomorrow. Carola is moving in with me.

I didn’t ask for explanations. I didn’t need them. I filled the same two grocery bags I had arrived with two years earlier—now a little more worn, with a couple of his T-shirts mixed in—and went slowly down the four flights, counting the landings. On the last one, before leaving, I heard his voice from above.

—Take care, my love.

I didn’t turn around.

I’ve lived alone ever since. Sometimes, when I go online, I open that ads section again. I read them without replying. I always recognize the same language: the language of men who promise immediate love and a cock that will fill you like no other. I learned long ago to distrust it. But I also learned that, on some cold nights, with my hand between my legs, I still feel like believing it.