The Man Waiting for Me on the Other Side of the Screen

Forty-eight years old, a recent divorce, and a flat that was too big for one person. That was what was left to me when Laura took her things and closed the door for the last time. It wasn’t a dramatic ending: it was silent, inevitable, like a tide pulling back without a sound but taking the sand with it. I spent the first few months working too much, watching sports I didn’t care about, and cooking for one.

I don’t know exactly when the thought began. It may have always been there, crouched in some corner I had never looked into. The truth is that in that period of loneliness I started asking myself questions I had never allowed myself before. What it would be like to touch another man’s cock. What it would be like for another man to put his inside me. I dismissed them with the mechanical efficiency of someone who had spent decades living on autopilot. But they kept coming back.

One late night, with the laptop open on the table and the silence of the flat hitting me in the face, I looked. I don’t remember exactly how I got to the first video, but I remember everything from there on. Two men, without artifice, without any obvious script. One had broad shoulders, a muscular back, big hands. The other was leaner, with a smooth chest and an expression on his face I hadn’t expected. It wasn’t acted. It was concentration. It was presence.

I stayed there watching without moving. I wasn’t thinking about whether it was right or wrong; I wasn’t thinking about anything except that image. The broad-shouldered man took the other man’s face in his hands and kissed him slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. His hand slid down the neck, over the chest, and kept going until it disappeared into the other man’s pants and pulled out a thick cock, already hard, the tip shining. I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time: curiosity without filters, without shame, without the mask of someone who believes he already knows everything about himself.

I opened my pants without thinking. My cock was hard before I even touched it. The slimmer man knelt and took the other man’s cock into his mouth, all of it, down to the base, and started sucking him slowly, licking the tip and then swallowing him again until it disappeared down his throat. I could see saliva hanging from his chin. The broad-shouldered one grabbed him by the head and pushed, holding his face as if it were a cunt. I stroked myself in time with those thrusts, my hand wrapped around my glans, feeling each pull in my groin. When the slimmer man pulled the cock out of his mouth and licked the balls one by one, sucking them as if they were candy, a gasp slipped out of me. I started jerking off faster.

On the screen, the broad-shouldered one already had the other man on all fours on the bed, his face buried between the slim man’s parted ass cheeks, eating his hole with his tongue. He pushed his tongue in and out of the opening, spat on it, opened it with two fingers, and licked it again. The slimmer man moaned and shoved his ass against the other man’s face, asking for more with words I couldn’t quite make out. When he shoved his cock inside him, all of it, in one single thrust, and the slimmer man folded against the sheets with an animal growl, I clenched my teeth and came in my hand, breathing in ragged bursts, my legs tense. I splattered the table. I kept stroking myself until the last drop, watching that man fuck the other man’s ass mercilessly, his buttocks slapping against his thighs and the wet sound filling the room.

After that I just stared at the ceiling. I didn’t feel guilty. That was what surprised me most: no guilt, no moral confusion. Only a new question, clear and concrete. What would it be like for real?

***

The following nights I repeated the ritual, but more calmly, without the urgency of the beginning. I started to understand what I liked and what I didn’t, to distinguish what was staged for the camera from what seemed real. Real scenes turned me on more. There was something in the concrete detail — a cock dripping with saliva, an ass opening slowly with two fingers, a guy swallowing another man’s cum with his mouth open and his tongue out — that reached me in a way nothing I’d seen before ever had.

After a month I downloaded the app. I spent ten minutes staring at the welcome screen before creating the profile. I put my age, a photo where my face couldn’t be seen, and a brief description: “First time. Curious. Discreet.” It took me another ten minutes to post it. Then I put the phone face down on the table and went to the kitchen to make myself something to eat, as if I hadn’t just done something with no way back.

The first messages were strange. Some were so direct they made me uncomfortable — cock pictures without a word, assholes spread open with two fingers, guys asking to come fuck me with no preamble. Others were too enthusiastic, too fast, with an energy I still didn’t have. I was about to close the app when Rodrigo’s profile appeared. Forty-four years old, architect, a photo where his face was visible without any hesitation. He wrote without rushing and without spelling mistakes. His first message was simple:

—Is this really your first time?

I told him yes. He asked me what I was curious about. I answered with more honesty than I would have expected from myself: the desire to know what it was like to suck another man’s cock, the question that had been circling in my head for months about whether I could take a cock up my ass, the feeling that there was something I had never explored and it was time to do it. I didn’t give him any more detail because I didn’t have any. He seemed to understand perfectly.

We kept writing to each other for three nights straight. Not only in a sexual way, or not only that: we talked about how each of us had ended up where we were, what we expected, what worried me. I was worried about not knowing what to do with another man’s cock in my mouth, about freezing, about disappointing him. Rodrigo told me that everyone said exactly that at the beginning and that it never happened the way one imagined it would. On the fourth night he asked me if I wanted to meet up.

***

We met on a Tuesday. His flat was in the centre, a twenty-minute metro ride that felt like twice that long. I kept going over whether I should turn back. One reasonable voice told me I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to, that I could leave at any time. Another voice, more honest, told me that if I had made it that far, it was because I wanted to be there. I wanted to feel a cock in my mouth. I wanted to know what it was like to open my legs for another guy.

Rodrigo opened the door with the same naturalness he wrote his messages with. Dark shirt, no tie, about my height. He held out his hand and then gestured toward the inside of the flat.

—You’re on time —he said.

—I didn’t know whether that was a good sign —I replied.

—It is.

The flat was tidy, with warm light and an open bottle of wine on the table. We talked for almost an hour: about work, the city, how we had both arrived at this point in our lives where one stops being afraid of one’s own questions. Rodrigo had a way of speaking that lowered the tension without eliminating it completely, and that was exactly what I needed. The tension had to stay there. Without it, it wouldn’t have been the same.

He was the one who moved closer. Without announcing it, he simply closed the distance on the sofa until his knee touched mine. He looked at me for a moment, weighing something up.

—Are you okay? —he asked.

—Nervous —I said. It was the truth.

—Normal. That’s how it should be.

When he kissed me, the first thing I noticed was how different it was. Different not as in worse or better: different in texture, in pressure, in the way his hand held the back of my neck. His mouth tasted like red wine. His tongue entered my mouth without asking permission and I received it, met it with mine, let myself go. His other hand slid up my thigh and landed straight on my cock over my pants. I was already hard. He squeezed me calmly, measuring me, and I let out a sigh against his mouth. I didn’t think about anything. I was just there, in that moment, with that mouth kissing me and that hand palming my cock through the fabric.

We stood up without breaking contact. Rodrigo took off my shirt slowly, unhurriedly, like someone who had nothing to prove. He ran his hands over my chest and shoulders, and I did the same to him. I felt the difference: the firmness, the heat, the texture of male skin beneath my palms. I liked it more than I expected. I unbuckled his belt and lowered his trousers. His cock was hard beneath his briefs. I slipped my hand in and took it: thick, hot, throbbing against my palm. It was the first time in my life I had another man’s cock in my hand, and I stood there for a second, still, feeling it, understanding its weight.

—Come on —he said, and took me to the bedroom.

***

The room was dim. I lay down and Rodrigo climbed on top of me, supporting his weight on his elbows. He kissed me again, this time more slowly, and then began moving downward: over my neck, over my chest, sucking my nipples one by one, biting them gently, over my stomach. I had my eyes open, looking at the ceiling, my breathing quickened and my hands at my sides, not quite knowing where to put them. He pulled my pants and briefs down in one go, all the way to my ankles. My cock was hard against my stomach. He looked at me from below, smiled faintly, and took me by the base.

—Relax —he said, and took me into his mouth all the way.

I closed my eyes and let out a moan I hadn’t expected. He did it with a calm that unsettled me. No rush, no forced gestures, with a concentration I could feel in every movement of his tongue. He licked my glans in circles, then went down and swallowed me to the root, until the tip hit the back of his throat. He came up and down with a slow, steady suction, sucking me as if he had all the time in the world. It was unlike anything I had imagined: more concrete, more physical, more present. I thrust my hips without meaning to. I put my hand on his head without thinking. He didn’t stop. He sucked my balls, licked the seam from underneath all the way to the tip, and took my cock back into his mouth until his eyes filled with tears. He kept going until I could no longer stay still, until I felt I was about to cum, and I had to push his forehead away to make him stop.

—Wait. Wait, I’m going to cum —I said, my voice broken.

He pulled away with a shining mouth and a smile. He wiped himself with the back of his hand.

—Now you —he said, and lay back on the bed beside me.

When I sat up and looked at him fully naked, with his cock pointed at the ceiling and his balls tight against the base, I took a moment to weigh my own desire against the instinct to pull back. Desire won. I leaned down and took him in my hand. I licked from his balls to his glans, testing. He tasted like skin, sweat, something salty at the tip. I ran my tongue over the crown and he let out his breath slowly. Then I took him into my mouth.

It was completely different from seeing it. The weight, the heat, the way it filled my mouth and pressed against my palate. I went down slowly, trying not to scrape it with my teeth, and made it halfway before feeling the gag reflex catch in my throat. I pulled back, breathed, went down again. After three or four tries I found the rhythm. I sucked the tip, went down as far as I could, came back up sucking hard. I ran my tongue underneath the glans and he let out a deep moan. His fingers tightened in my hair. His breathing grew shorter, irregular. That was what affected me most: knowing that I was the one causing that response, that it was real and it was mine, that there was no screen between us. I sucked his balls the way I had seen in that first video, one by one, and he let out a low “fuck” that got me even harder.

After that he asked me if he could keep going. I understood what he was asking. I said yes.

He took his time. He had me lie on my stomach first, with a pillow under my hips, and spread my ass cheeks with both hands. I felt his tongue on my hole before I saw him coming. I gasped into the pillow. He licked me slowly, circling, pushing his tongue inside, spitting and licking again. I had never done anything like that in my life and the sensation ran through me from top to bottom. When he slipped in the first finger, slick with the lube he had taken from the nightstand, I squeezed my eyes shut. It was inside me, moving slowly, searching for something. When it found it —a pressure in a specific spot that made my toes curl— I groaned into the pillow. He put in the second finger. He worked them in and out, speaking softly in my ear, telling me to breathe, to relax, that I was almost ready.

When he put on the condom and coated his cock with lube, he asked me to roll onto my side, one leg bent up toward my chest. I felt the glans pressed against the hole, pushing. I held my breath.

—Let it out —he told me—. Push against me.

I let the air out and pushed. The head went in all at once and I let out a tight moan, somewhere between pain and something else. He stayed still. He waited. When the burn began to ease, he pushed a little more. And a little more. And so on, in waves, until he had it all the way inside, down to the base, his balls resting against mine. The initial pain was exactly what I had expected and went away exactly as he had told me it would: slowly, until it was replaced by something else. A sensation I still didn’t have a name for, one that was being built as it happened. A hot fullness, a pulse inside me that wasn’t mine.

He started moving. First very slowly, coming out only a little and then sinking back in. My mouth was open against the pillow and I could feel every centimetre entering and leaving. When he adjusted the angle, lifting my hip a little, his cock hit that same spot he had found earlier with his fingers and I let out a moan I didn’t even recognize as mine. Rodrigo noticed. He stayed there, thrusting at exactly that angle, with short, firm strokes, until I was panting with no control at all, my cock dripping onto the sheet without anyone touching it.

—Get on all fours —he whispered in my ear.

I did. He pulled out for a moment, positioned me on my knees with my ass in the air, and then pushed back in with one slow, full thrust. Now he really started fucking me. His hands closed over my hips, pulling me back each time he pushed forward. His balls slapping against me. The wet sound of his cock sliding in and out. He spoke into my ear, close to the nape of my neck, saying dirty things in a low voice: that I was taking it well for a first time, that my ass was tight, that he was enjoying every inch. I answered with gasps. I told him to keep going. I begged for more.

It was something built between the two of us, not something that was happening to me while I observed it from the outside. That too was different from everything I had imagined during those months of accumulated questions and late-night videos. He took my hand to my own cock and squeezed it, telling me to work it myself. I started jerking off while he fucked me, matching the rhythm. Every one of his thrusts inward coincided with a pull of my hand upward. My cum built up at the base with a speed I couldn’t stop.

I came first, hands braced on the mattress and head bowed, shooting onto the sheet in spasms that ripped through my entire body. My ass tightened around his cock and drew a growl out of him. Rodrigo kept going for a few more seconds, thrusting harder and deeper, and then he sank all the way in and came too, his forehead pressed to my back and a sound he couldn’t hold back. I felt his cock throbbing inside the condom, felt him trembling all over against my back, felt him slowly collapse onto me without pulling out yet.

We stayed like that for a moment, him on top, my cheek against the sheet, both of us breathing hard. Then he came out slowly, carefully, and fell back beside me.

***

We lay there staring at the ceiling, in that after-stillness I recognized even if it was the first time. Rodrigo had his arm crossed over his chest and his eyes half-closed.

—How are you? —he asked after a while.

—Good —I said. It was the first honest answer I had given in a long time.

I left his flat after midnight, my ass still hot and a strange, good feeling between my legs. The city was still the same, with the same noise and the same lights, but I wasn’t exactly the same person who had gone in a few hours earlier. Not in the dramatic sense of a revelation or an identity crisis. None of that. I had simply answered a question I had been asking myself for a long time, and the answer was simpler than I had believed during all those months: I liked sucking cock, I liked being fucked, I wanted to do it again, and that was enough for now.

I saved Rodrigo’s number before I reached the metro stop. Without thinking too much about it, without giving it more weight than it had. I just saved it.