The Brazilian I Met on the App Wouldn't Let Me Think

That afternoon I was walking through Bogotá’s Zona T without a clear plan. It was close to two, the sun was still beating down, and all I had in my backpack was a book I hadn’t opened in weeks. I went into a café-restaurant that served a daily menu, ordered the first thing I saw on the board, and while I waited I pulled out my phone and opened Hornet.

I opened it more out of habit than enthusiasm. The “nearby” tab showed me the same faces as always: empty profiles, tired lines, torso shots with no face. Nothing caught my eye, so I left the phone face down when they brought me the soup.

I ate slowly, watched people pass by the window, and when I finished lunch I checked the app again. A new message. It was from a profile with a photo: a man a little older than me, dark skin, a half-smile, and a nickname that said SaoBog. The message was polite, almost formal: he greeted me, said he liked my profile, and asked if we could chat for a while.

I replied while I looked at his pictures. He wasn’t handsome in the strict sense. He had a broad forehead, a strong jaw, and thick arms that showed even in a mediocre photo. The profile said he was 6'0" and from São Paulo, passing through Colombia. Something about the way he wrote, restrained but direct, made me keep answering him.

He told me he’d been in Bogotá for two weeks on a project for his company and had the afternoon free. The app had shown him that I was only a few blocks away, and if I wanted, we could meet for a bit and get to know each other. No pressure, he said. Just talk.

—And where are you now? —I wrote to him.

—In a bookstore on 82nd Street. If you want, I’ll wait here.

I thought about it for a second. 82nd Street was a ten-minute walk away. I paid for lunch, slung my backpack over my shoulder, and told him I’d rather meet him on a bench in the central square of Zona T, under the trees. I sent him what I was wearing — blue jeans, white sneakers with light-blue accents, a plain black T-shirt, and a red cap with a black embroidered logo — and asked him for the same. He replied with a precise description: blue denim pants, a red T-shirt with a large black print, a white cap, and dark sneakers. And he added one more line: “I’m eager.”

I got there before he did. I sat down on a bench made of dark wood, rested my elbows on my knees, and watched people pass with sweaty palms. I wasn’t nervous about the meeting itself — I’d had similar meetups before — but about something else, an expectation I couldn’t quite name. Something in the way he wrote had turned me on more than I wanted to admit.

He didn’t take long to show up. I saw him coming from far away. He was taller than I expected and, above all, broader. He walked unhurriedly but with the confidence of someone who knows he’s being watched. When he saw me, he quickened his pace and smiled at me from several yards away. I stood up and held out my hand.

—Rafael —he said, and his Brazilian accent hit my ear like a hook.

—Nice to meet you.

We sat down on the bench. At first he kept a prudent distance, legs apart, hands folded over his lap. He asked me what I was doing there. I told him I worked freelance, had the afternoon free, and was wandering around with no destination. He explained the project, a consultancy with a Colombian pharmaceutical company, the long workdays, how little of the city he’d had a chance to see.

—And honestly —he said, turning toward me— when I saw your photo on the app, I thought I had to message you. You’re even hotter in person than in the photo.

I let out a nervous laugh.

—Don’t exaggerate.

—I’m not exaggerating. Why did you reply to me?

I told him the truth: I’d found him attractive, he was nearby, and I thought, “why not?” I also warned him, trying to sound casual, that I was a bottom. That I didn’t know if that fit what he was looking for.

He flashed a broad smile and, without warning, put a hand on my thigh. I felt the weight, the warmth, the denim against his palm. It made me uncomfortable. I gently moved it away.

—Easy —I said. —We’re out in the middle of the street.

—You relax. Better for me. I’m a top. I was waiting for you to say that.

His hand came back. This time I didn’t stop it. He started moving it slowly over my jeans, not squeezing, almost as if asking permission. I looked around. It was mid-afternoon, people were passing by, but the bench was tucked into a shady corner and the palm trees covered us partly. Even so, it wasn’t a place for touching.

—Let’s go somewhere else —he said before I could suggest it. —I know a hotel a few blocks away. I saw it when I left the company apartment this morning.

—Let me think about it.

—You have nothing to think about. Trust me.

He slipped an arm behind my back and, with an open hand, squeezed one of my ass cheeks. He did it with authority, without apologizing, looking me straight in the eyes. In those eyes I saw something that hadn’t been in his messages: raw desire, unpolished, unfiltered, no fuss. I almost kissed him right there. I held back and stood up.

—Let’s go.

We walked down the avenue without touching. We chatted about trivial things — Colombian food, traffic, the weather — but his hand kept brushing my hip every few steps, as if he needed to confirm that I was still there, that I wasn’t going to back out. At a traffic light he gave one of my ass cheeks a quick slap and laughed when I jumped.

The hotel was one of those discreet places, with no reception visible from the street, just a desk behind polarized glass. I paid. He offered after, once he had the key in his hand, but I waved it off. We went up the stairs to the second floor. As I climbed, I felt his hand slip between my ass cheeks over my jeans, pressing the fabric against the seam. He didn’t stop touching me, not even for an instant.

***

I opened the door. I hadn’t even finished stepping inside when he grabbed my shoulders and shoved me in with a firm motion. The door shut on its own, slamming against the frame. Before I could react, he was already pressed against me and I felt, unmistakably, the hardness straining beneath his jeans.

He took my waist with one hand and grabbed the back of my neck with the other. He kissed me like the conversation before had just been a formality he needed to get out of the way. It wasn’t a tender kiss. It was the kiss of someone marking territory. His tongue went in without asking and, while he kissed me, the free hand traveled over my T-shirt: chest, ribs, waist, sides.

—Look what you’re doing to me —he whispered in my ear, guiding my hand down to his crotch.

I squeezed him through his jeans and let out a sigh. His cock was hard, thick, throbbing against the fabric. He turned me around, set me with my back to him, and pressed his body to mine again. His erection pushed against the base of my ass.

—You’re going to take responsibility for this.

He started pulling off my shirt with that same urgency. With his feet he made me kick off my sneakers in a rush. Step by step he drove me back against the wall at the far end of the room. When I was there, he turned me to face him again, lifted my wrists above my head, and held them with one hand. He used the other for everything else.

He sucked my nipples one after the other, slowly, never taking his eyes off me between licks. Meanwhile, his free hand unbuckled his belt, undid the jeans button, pulled down the zipper. When he let go of my wrists, he turned me around and, pressing against my back again, let his tongue trail down my neck, my nape, my spine. I let out a moan I hadn’t expected. He heard it and used it.

—You like it like this, don’t you?

I didn’t answer him. I had no way to. He moved down my back with his mouth and, reaching the waistband of my boxer briefs, caught it between his teeth and pulled them down in one motion. My ass was exposed in the cold air of the room. For a second I felt shy being naked while he still had all his clothes on. I tried to turn around but he stopped me.

—Still —he said, kneeling behind me.

He made me lean forward, palms on the wall, head down, ass up. He gave me a couple of slaps that cracked through the room like applause. Then he spread my ass cheeks with both hands and just looked.

—Look at how fucking good I was hiding this from myself.

When I felt his tongue, I pressed my forehead against the wall. It was a patient tongue, generous, wet. He licked me in circles, kissed me like he was kissing my mouth, pushed the tip of his finger against me until my body gave way a little. He tried to get the whole finger in. I resisted. Not yet.

He understood. He stood up, took me by the waist, pulled me to my feet, and dragged me to the bed. He sat me on the edge, grabbed my chin, and kissed me more calmly this time, but with the same intention. Without breaking away, he pulled down his jeans. I heard them hit the floor. When he pulled back, his cock was already bare in front of my face.

It was big. Not monstrous, but thick, dark, with a shiny head. He took it in his hand and ran it over my lips, over my cheeks. He smelled like a man, like a sweaty Bogotá afternoon, like a cheap hotel. I liked it.

—Open —he said.

He shoved it into my mouth without waiting for an answer. I ran my tongue over the head, over the shaft, over the veins. I heard him groan, first softly, then harder. He had a deep voice that broke when his excitement rose.

—Such a nice mouth you have, baby. Keep going.

I sucked him for several minutes. On my tongue I tasted the fluid already leaking from him, plenty of it, salty. At one point he stopped me with a hand on my forehead.

—Enough. I want inside you. I can’t wait anymore.

***

He made me get up on the bed on all fours, knees apart, hands planted. He knelt behind me. I felt his cock rubbing between my ass cheeks, up and down, unhurriedly, as if measuring how much was left before entering. He spat on his hand, spat on himself, repeated the gesture twice. Then he lined the head up with my hole.

He pushed. Slowly at first. My body tightened. He pushed again, let go, pushed once more. When the head was all the way in, it was as if the rest of his cock slid in by gravity: I felt it drive all the way to the hilt in one thrust. I let out a broken moan, my legs gave out, and I fell chest-first onto the bed. He fell on top of me, without pulling out.

—Easy. Breathe.

He started moving slowly. He went all the way in and almost all the way out. My body adjusted to the rhythm. With every thrust I made a different sound, moans I couldn’t control, sighs, a stray word. He moaned too. He said things in Portuguese I didn’t understand but could guess.

—It feels so good being inside you.

He fucked me in that position for a while I lost track of. Then he stopped, pulled out, left me empty. That feeling of absence surprised me: my body wanting what a second earlier had filled it. He grabbed my hip and pulled me back, doggy style again, legs apart, hands planted firmly on the bed. He pushed back in in one thrust. This time it wasn’t gradual: he drove his cock in to the base and started pumping faster. He grabbed my chin, turned my face to one side, and kissed me while still inside.

—I wasn’t expecting you to be this good.

***

He pulled out again. He motioned for me to bring my legs together and lower my chest to the bed. I ended up almost lying down, ass raised, legs pressed together. He grabbed both my hands and crossed them behind my back. He held them with one hand, as if he’d handcuffed me. With the other he positioned the tip of his cock and started sliding it back in, gradual but relentless, until his balls hit mine.

—Your little ass squeezes me so fucking good.

He pulled out, pushed back in. Pulled out, pushed back in. The rhythm kept building. The bed started moving against the wall. I moaned without shame, face pressed into the sheet, wrists held behind me, heels hanging off the mattress. He breathed harder each time. I felt his thighs tense behind mine.

—I’m about to come. Get ready.

He didn’t give me time to answer. He sped up, drove in a couple of brutal thrusts, and on the third I felt it. A hot release inside me, pulses against my walls, a thick liquid staying there. He gave two more thrusts, slower, and went still. I kept my face pressed into the sheet, feeling him throb.

He pulled out carefully. He let go of my hands. I let myself fall onto my side and, almost without thinking, brought my fingers to my ass. It was open, stretched, wet. I felt his semen between my fingertips, thick and warm. It didn’t disgust me. It gave me a strange calm, like having finished something I hadn’t known was pending.

Rafael flopped down beside me. He grabbed my waist, pulled me against him, and kissed me again, this time slowly, almost affectionately. He ran a hand over my back, my chest, my legs. He whispered something in my ear that sounded like a promise and a goodbye at the same time.

—That was so good. I hope we do it again.

—Whenever you want.

We got dressed unhurriedly. Before leaving, he tugged my arm and kissed me against the door, with the same intensity as the first kiss. Then he opened it and we went downstairs together. On the street we said goodbye with a handshake and each took our own path.

It wasn’t the last time. I saw him twice more in those weeks, in different rooms of the same hotel. After that he went back to São Paulo and the app stopped showing him to me in “nearby.” Sometimes, when I pass through Zona T, I look at the bench where I waited for him. Not his. Mine. The one I sat on that afternoon, before I knew what was going to happen next.