The Neighbor Who Taught Me to Desire Men

We were two people who shouldn’t have been together, doing exactly what should not have been happening. She was married, I was too, and we had met that afternoon in that house her family left empty during the winter. We had been seeing each other in secret for months, and neither of us had put the right word to what we had.

What I can say is that that afternoon was about to change everything, though not in the way I expected.

We heard the front door open and both froze. She reacted first, with that calm only people used to lying have: she fixed her clothes, wiped with the back of her hand a thread of my semen still hanging from the corner of her lips, smoothed her tousled hair, and went out into the hallway with her tits still standing hard against her blouse. I stayed in the room for a few seconds, pulling up my pants, my half-soft cock stuck to my thigh and the smell of her cunt clinging to my fingers, hearing quiet greetings.

When I came out, there was a man in the kitchen. He had to be about fifty-five, short gray hair, dark eyes that looked at you without hurry. His name was Marcos, he had been the family’s neighbor for decades, and he had always had a key to the house. She greeted him normally, explained in three sentences that we were just passing through, and disappeared into another room with an excuse I didn’t quite catch.

I was left alone with him.

Marcos offered me a glass of water without asking whether I wanted one, leaned against the counter with his arms crossed, and looked at me with the same calm with which he looked at everything.

—And how is she? —he asked, in a tone that was not nosy, just direct.

—Fine —I answered, uncomfortable. I felt like I’d been caught doing something.

—Relax, I don’t care what you lot do —he said—. You’re adults. And from the smell on your fingers, you fucked her well.

I looked down at my hand without meaning to, and he let out a short, dry laugh, without mockery.

—No need to hide it —he added—. Nobody here is going to say a word.

My shoulders loosened without my meaning to. We started talking about unimportant things: the heat that afternoon, the condition of the front garden, how long it had been since anyone had come to the house. Marcos spoke slowly, without filling the silences just to fill them, and I discovered it was easy for me to be there, in front of him, at twenty-six and still thinking about the room from before, about the wet cunt I had just left, about the cock that had gone hard again for no apparent reason.

—I imagine you have plenty of opportunities —he said suddenly, looking me in the eyes.

—For what? —I replied, baffled.

—For fucking. —He gestured vaguely toward the hallway—. You’re young, you’re good-looking. People like that usually aren’t alone for long.

—I’m not looking for anything —I said. It was an honest answer.

—Nobody looks for what they later find —he said, with a half smile that wasn’t sarcasm.

There was a silence then, not an awkward one. It was dense, but not in the way that makes you want to run. I stayed still, looking at him, not quite sure what to expect.

—I think you’ve sucked cock before —he said. This time it wasn’t a question either—. Some cock, at some point. It shows.

I didn’t answer. I thought of Rodrigo, a boy from my neighborhood with whom I had had something brief and nameless when we were eighteen, an afternoon when he had opened my fly in his room and I had shoved my cock into his mouth without really knowing what I was doing, something we had both buried quickly and never named again. I thought of that and of the silence that was more eloquent than any answer I could give.

Marcos got up from the chair, took two steps toward me, and kissed me.

It was soft. More a question than a statement. He waited a second to see what I would do.

I didn’t pull away.

Then he kissed me again, this time with more intent, one hand barely brushing the side of my face, the other sliding down my waist to squeeze the bulge over my pants with a firmness that left no doubt he knew exactly what he had in his palm. My cock jumped under the fabric and he felt it and smiled faintly against my mouth. It lasted as long as those things last when you realize they were going to happen sooner or later.

—Not today —he said when he pulled back, still close, without taking his hand off the bulge—. But I’ll be waiting for you tomorrow at seven at my place. The one on the corner, green shutter. If you don’t come, nothing happens. If you do, you’ll leave different. With your ass open or with your mouth full, we’ll see.

She came back at that moment. Marcos took his hand away with the naturalness of someone putting out a cigarette and behaved as if he had been talking about the price of vegetables. He said goodbye cordially, collected what he had come for, and left, closing the door with the same calm with which he did everything.

***

That night I couldn’t sleep well. It wasn’t guilt I felt, nor exactly desire. It was more the physical memory of the kiss, the detail that Marcos hadn’t hesitated for a single second, the firm hand on my bulge, the feeling that I hadn’t wanted to pull away either and that this said something about me I still didn’t know how to name.

I lay down beside my wife, who was sleeping on her back. I stared at the ceiling until after midnight, replaying that short kitchen scene, the different texture of a man’s kiss, the way Marcos spoke as if everything he said were obvious and drama-free. I got hard again, thinking about his cock, about what it would be like to have it in my mouth, about the weight of another man’s balls against my chin. I grabbed myself under the sheets and had to pull out fast, clenching my teeth so I wouldn’t moan, finishing in a pile of paper napkins that were on the nightstand. I came with a force I hadn’t experienced since I was a teenager.

The next morning she asked if I was okay.

—Yeah, it’s work —I said, and went to shower before she could ask me anything else.

I spent the day doing things without paying much attention to any of them. At six in the evening I was already washed, my ass rinsed inside with the hand shower as if I knew it would be needed, and staring at the clock.

***

The house on the corner had the green shutter exactly as he had said. I stood on the sidewalk for a few minutes, hands in my pockets, weighing it. I could turn around. I could send a message making up an excuse and never mention the matter again. Nobody would find out anything.

I rang the bell.

Marcos opened almost immediately, as if he had been waiting near the door. He was wearing a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the same calm expression as always. He let me into a small hall with a coat rack, a mirror, and a chair, and before he had finished closing the door he was kissing me.

It wasn’t the brief, cautious kiss of the day before. This time he took the back of my neck firmly and kissed me slowly, without haste, his tongue entering my mouth with the naturalness of someone who already knows that place is going to be his. The other hand grabbed my cock over my pants, squeezed it, measured it without disguise. I answered, with my own hand also reaching for the bulge, finding it hard, thick, long under the fabric of his pants. In that moment I discovered something I had always known somewhere without being able to articulate it: that for me kisses are everything, that without kisses I don’t function, that desire begins there or it doesn’t begin at all.

—Good —he murmured, his lips still close to mine—. That’s very good. You get hard fast. I like it.

He took me down a short hallway to his bedroom. It was a tidy room, with a big bed and natural light filtered through a half-closed shutter. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at me from there without saying anything, waiting.

—Take your clothes off —he said at last—. All of them. Slowly. I want to see you.

I did it almost with my back to him, out of inhibition, looking at the wall as if the wallpaper had something interesting to offer. I took off my shirt, then my pants, and when I lowered my briefs I felt my cock, already hard from the hallway, jerk against my belly with a dull thump. When I turned around I was naked and he was still dressed, looking at me with an expression that was neither crude nor demanding. It was a calm appraisal, almost affectionate, lingering a long moment between my legs.

—What a nice cock you’ve got —he said, without changing tone—. And what a hard-on. Turn around. I want to see your ass too.

I turned. I felt his gaze moving over my buttocks with the same patience he had used on the rest of me.

—Thanks —I replied, not knowing what else to say, feeling ridiculous and turned on at the same time.

—Don’t get tense. This isn’t a rush and you’re not going to do anything wrong.

He stood and came toward me. He kissed me again, long, while his hands moved over my back, my sides, my chest with a methodical attention that was anything but cold. It was as if he wanted to know the terrain before moving across it. His fingers slid down my spine to slip between my ass cheeks, and his thumb barely brushed my hole, without pressing, just marking that he knew where it was and would come back to it. When he nipped my left nipple, I felt something loosen in my stomach. Then the other one, sucking, tugging with his teeth just enough for me to let out a short moan I couldn’t suppress. I went to hug him without deciding to, my cock knocking against the fabric of his pants, leaving a wet trail of pre-cum on the crotch of his jeans.

—Look at how you’re already soaking —he said, his mouth on my neck—. Your tip’s dripping. Kneel down.

I obeyed. He unbuttoned slowly, pulled his jeans down to his ankles along with his briefs, and his cock sprang free in front of my face with a firmness that made me swallow. It was thicker than long, the head broad and already shiny, the balls heavy hanging underneath. I stared at it for a second, my mouth ten centimeters away, not knowing where to start. I took it in my hand, weighed it, felt the pulse in my palm, and took it into my mouth clumsily, not really knowing the mechanics or the rhythm.

—Stop —he said, without harshness, running a hand through my hair—. Not like that. Slowly. Start with the tip and use a lot of tongue. Turn it around. Take it in and out without hurry. The balls too. Suck them for me, one first and then the other. With your mouth wide open. That’s it. Like that.

I adjusted to what he told me. I licked the tip with my tongue flat, then wrapped it with my lips, worked my way down little by little until my throat would take no more, and came back up. I sucked his balls, one first, then the other, feeling the warm weight on my tongue, the rough hair against my chin. I went back to the cock, now with more confidence, helping myself with my hand at the base, keeping a rhythm. It was strange to be given instructions in that calm, almost didactic voice, as if he were explaining some technical, neutral thing to me. But the sensation was anything but neutral: every time I did something right, his breathing changed a little, the hand in my hair tightened, and I learned from that.

—Look at me while you suck me —he said—. Eyes up. There. That’s it. You do that very well for your first time.

I concentrated as I hadn’t in a long time, attentive to the rhythm, the pressure, the small signs that told me whether I was doing well or not. He pushed his hips a little and shoved his cock farther in; I felt my throat tighten, the gag reflex, tears gathering, but I didn’t pull away. He loosened, let me breathe, and pushed again. On the third try I took him almost all the way, my nose against his pubic hair, and he let out a low groan, the first real sound of pleasure I heard from him all afternoon.

—Like that —he said—. Just like that.

I don’t know how long I spent on my knees sucking Marcos off. What I do remember is that at some point I stopped thinking about whether I was doing it right and just started doing it, my mouth full of saliva and cock, my jaw beginning to ache and not wanting to stop because of it, which is when things really start working.

When he pulled me up, he took me straight to his mouth and we lay down together on the bed, tangled up, each touching the other with hands and lips. He undressed too in two motions and pressed himself to my body, skin against skin, cock against cock, rubbing without hurry. He sucked my nipples again, licked my neck, worked his way down my chest until he took my cock in his mouth and gave me back what I’d done to him, with a technique that made the difference in mileage between us painfully obvious. He knew exactly how much to suck, where to put his tongue, when to ease off so he wouldn’t make me finish. I held his head lightly, watching mine disappear between his lips again and again, and had to bite my lip so I wouldn’t cum right there.

Then he had me turn face down. He spread my ass cheeks with both hands, and I felt his hot, wet mouth planted squarely on my hole, his tongue circling in, soaking me, softening me, with a patience that was almost cruel. No one had ever done that to me. I gripped the sheet with both fists, groaning into the pillow, my cock pressed hard against the mattress, and he didn’t stop, ate my ass as if it were the only thing he wanted to do in life, alternating tongue and finger, one finger first, then two, with cold lube he took from somewhere and that made me jerk.

—Relax —he said, his mouth still close—. Breathe. You’ll see how good it feels.

His hands were precise and patient. I learned from them what no one had taught me before, paying attention to every movement as if there were a new language in that man’s fingers. When he had me open with two fingers and touched something inside I hadn’t known existed, my cock started leaking pre-cum without me touching anything.

At some point he lay on his back on the bed, and what remained implicit in the gesture was an invitation without words. He grabbed his knees, spread open, and showed me his ass with the same naturalness with which he had shown me his cock, waiting for me to do my part.

—Now you —he said—. Put some lube on and put it in me slowly. You push when I tell you.

I put lube on my hand, smeared it on my cock, took the base and rested it against his hole. I pushed slowly, with more care than I’d had with anyone in a long time. I felt the resistance first, then the head going in, his mouth opening to suck in air, and then the tight heat that wrapped around me centimeter by centimeter until I was buried all the way, my balls pressed against his buttocks. He waited still for me to find the position, the rhythm, the way to move without rushing.

—Now yes —he murmured—. Move. No hurry. Deep inside.

I started moving, first slowly, pulling almost all the way out and pushing back in, watching the ring stretch around me. Then faster, my breathing already ragged, gripping his knees for more leverage. His cock was hard, resting against his belly, and I took it in my hand and started jerking him off to the rhythm of my thrusts. When I found the motion, the pleasure was so clean and immediate that I felt I was going to finish within seconds. Every stroke was better than the last, the heat of his ass tightening around me with a precision I had never felt in any cunt.

—Not yet —he said, and I knew it before he said it.

I stopped. Drew a deep breath. Pulled out slowly, my cock gleaming with lube, throbbing hard against my belly.

We turned over again, went back to kisses, went back to hands. He had me lie on my side, settled behind me, and this time he put it in me, entering little by little, giving me time to get used to the size. At first it burned; then it stopped burning. Then it became a steady pressure that made me clench my teeth and moan in the same movement. He held my hip with one hand and worked my cock from behind with the other, building the rhythm up. He licked the back of my neck, bit my shoulder, whispered things in my ear that I don’t remember clearly anymore but that made me spread my legs wider.

We spent more time on that bed than I would have guessed: changing positions, taking turns, not talking much, in comfortable silence, learning each other with a calm seriousness that was nothing like solemnity. It was simply that: learning. And I wanted to learn.

When the end came, it came differently: he pulled his cock out of my ass, we lay face to face again, and he guided me with his hand in mine while I did the same with mine. We jerked each other off, kissing with open mouths, watching the other man’s hand move over our own. He took care of me in the final seconds too, with that precision of his that left nothing to chance, squeezing at exactly the right point, increasing the pace when he sensed I was close. I came first, with a long spasm that shook me all over, my load shooting across my belly and over his hand in thick bursts that wouldn’t stop. The smell of semen filled the room. Seconds later he came too, with a short groan, and I felt the hot load hit my chest and run down my ribs, mixing with mine. We stayed like that for a moment, breathing hard, hands still entwined, skin sticky. There was in that shared gesture something more intimate than anything else that had happened that afternoon.

I wiped myself with a towel he handed me, got dressed. Marcos walked me to the door with that same calm of his that was already familiar to me, almost comforting, still naked, his cock soft now and his chest marked.

—Come back whenever you want —he said—. No need to call ahead. And next time you’ll come with your ass really clean. I’m going to fuck you for real.

I walked back home along streets I knew by heart, my ass still burning and a warm wetness between my cheeks reminding me at every step what had just happened. The afternoon had fully fallen and the shop lights lit the sidewalk with that orange glow of winter nights. I thought about what had just happened and I didn’t feel what I would have expected to feel: neither regret, nor confusion, nor any urgent need to explain anything to myself.

I felt, above all, that something that had been closed had long wanted to open.

***

Until that afternoon, my life had followed a line I had never questioned very much. Women came on their own, desire was automatic, things happened without my having to think too much about them. But there had always been certain stray moments that didn’t fit well in that picture: clothes I liked trying on when I was alone at home, looks I held too long, some occasion when one of my fingers tried my own hole in the shower without my daring to name what I was looking for, a diffuse discomfort I had learned to ignore without naming it.

Marcos didn’t give me answers. He gave me something more valuable: the chance to look at those things without having to do anything with them yet, without anyone putting names on them that I wasn’t ready to use. There was something in the way that man conducted himself that didn’t ask for explanations or offer them. Things happened or they didn’t. And if they happened, they happened well. With a hard cock, with an open ass, and with a mouth full.

I had spent an afternoon fucking a woman and almost immediately a man had kissed me, sucked my cock, and fucked me, and I had liked both. That was the only thing I knew for certain when I got home that night. It wasn’t a small thing.

Desire doesn’t warn you. Sometimes it arrives, sits down quietly in the chair opposite you, offers you something, and waits for your answer. Marcos had waited for mine with more patience than I deserved, and I had rung the bell.

I didn’t regret it then. I don’t regret it now.