The Nickname That Hid What I Felt for My Coworker

This story I’m about to tell really happened. It happened with a guy from work and I still don’t quite know how it ended up happening, because up until that day I’d been living convinced this wasn’t my thing.

It started in the dumbest possible way. One of those late-shift chat exchanges, when your brain is already fried and you joke around about any old crap so you don’t think about what’s left to do. I sent him a stupid sticker, one of a cat with its tongue out, and he replied with one that was a little more explicit. I laughed, replied with an even worse one. That’s how we spent a week, trading filthy remarks like other people hand out cigarettes.

Then the stickers turned into gifs. The gifs turned into lines. One night he sent me an image of a guy on his knees with a cock shoved down his throat and wrote, “that’s how I want to see you, Locker Room.” It took me three minutes to answer. Three endless minutes, with my dick hard under my desk and my whole breath concentrated in my thumb. I answered with a “lol” and an emoji that meant nothing and everything all at once.

I have a girlfriend. We’ve been together almost four years. We live in an apartment in the neighborhood, two bedrooms, a cat named Mía, and a comfortable Friday routine of pizza and movies. I had never looked at another man the way I was looking at him. The truth is, women outside of that also never did much for me. Just him. Damián, my shift partner, the guy who made mate for me in the middle of the afternoon and laughed with a wide mouth I’d started studying without meaning to, imagining how he’d open it to spit on the head of my dick before taking the whole thing down.

One night the nickname appeared. It was because of a video he sent me: two guys fucking against the lockers in a locker room and a stagehand bursting in on them. One was ramming into the other with animal violence, the one taking it had his face smashed against the metal and his mouth open, moaning like a bitch. We laughed our asses off over chat. From then on we started calling each other “Locker Room.” “Good morning, Locker Room.” “How’s the night going, Locker Room.” Every time he typed that word to me, my mouth flooded, really, like Pavlov’s dog but in reverse.

You don’t do this to anybody, I thought.

But I answered him anyway.

The fantasies started taking over my whole head. I didn’t want to fuck him. I wanted to get on my knees and suck him off. I wanted to feel the weight of it on my tongue, I wanted him to shove it all the way back until my breath caught and my eyes watered, I wanted to swallow every drop of cum he had to give me and clean the last bit off with the tip of my tongue. I pictured it not too big but white, with thick visible veins, one of those cocks young guys have that look like they were drawn on purpose, with a pink head all wet, heavy balls full of milk waiting for me to take it out with my mouth. I jerked off to that image almost every night, grabbing my dick in a fist, spitting into my palm so it’d slide better, imagining it was his mouth moving me up and down. My girlfriend slept beside me breathing softly and I’d go to the bathroom with my phone on silent, no notification sound, going back through the chats I’d saved in a folder she’d never open. I’d beat my meat looking at the sticker of the guy on his knees until I came in my hand and then I’d eat it. Yes, I’d eat it. I wanted to practice the taste for when the day came.

***

Then they changed our shift. They put him on mornings, me in the afternoon, and the chats faded out on their own. Three weeks with nothing. Then a stray “all good, Locker Room?” on a Sunday at eleven at night that neither of us followed up. I thought it was over and for a while I thanked the universe for getting that shitty temptation off my back. For another while I felt a strange sadness, like when a series gets cut off halfway through the season.

It wasn’t over.

It was a Thursday in September. I was alone at home because my girlfriend had gone to the country for three days to see her mother. The cat was curled up asleep on the back of the couch. I’d made myself a baked milanesa and was watching whatever on TV when my phone vibrated on the coffee table.

“Locker Room, you there?”

I froze staring at the screen. I read it twice. I read it three times. I felt my body change temperature the way it does when you drop fast in an elevator.

“I’m here, Locker Room. You?”

He took a long minute to type. I watched the dots appear and disappear twice, as if he were wavering between two answers. When his came through, it was so long I had to scroll to finish reading it.

He told me he was working overtime in the warehouse, that he’d agreed to stay until one in the morning because he needed the money to fix his bike, and that after that he still had a forty-five-minute ride home only to turn around and come back the next day at seven. He asked how I was, what I was doing, whether I was still with the same girlfriend. I told him yes, we were fine, but that tonight I was alone because she’d gone to the country.

The second I hit send I felt it. Really felt it, not metaphorically. A current ran down my spine, grabbed my balls, made blood rush to my dick in a way that almost scared me. The veins stood out as if I’d been pumped up with a bike pump. My heart was hammering my throat. And all the while I was typing with one hand, because the other was already inside my shorts, squeezing my cock, which was leaking precum against the fabric of my underwear.

“If you want, come by the house and it’ll be close for you to get back tomorrow,” I typed.

I sent it without thinking. The second the button was pressed, I wanted to take it back. What did I do, what the fuck did I do.

Thirty seconds passed. Forty. The screen went dark. I tapped it to wake it up again, as if that would speed up the reply. Fifty seconds. A whole minute.

“Tonight you’re taking the train, Locker Room.”

I read it and my breath caught. I read it again. I read it again. I dropped the phone on my chest and stared at the ceiling, with my hand still squeezing my dick and my heart making a sound a heart shouldn’t make.

***

I grabbed the phone again after several seconds and texted him the address. I typed it letter by letter because my fingers were shaking and my ñs kept slipping away. I told him which buzzer to ring, told him to leave his helmet at the door, asked if he wanted a drink when he got there, a beer, anything. He answered yes, a beer was fine.

“I get off at one, figure twenty minutes by bike.”

I looked at the wall clock. It was eleven forty.

I didn’t know what to do with my body. I got up from the couch, went to the kitchen, poured myself a glass of water and sat back down. Got up again. Went to the bathroom. Looked at myself in the mirror and tried to calm down, to breathe, to think whether what I was about to do was a stupid thing I’d regret for the rest of my life or something I’d needed for years without daring to name.

I showered. I washed my ass three times, stuck a finger in with soap, rinsed myself really well just in case. Brushed my teeth twice. Put on a black T-shirt and shorts with no underwear underneath. Lowered the living room lights like it was a date. Then I got embarrassed and turned them all back on. Then lowered them again. I paced in circles around the apartment for ten minutes, checking the time every thirty seconds, with my dick going up and down on its own from nerves.

At twelve forty-five the phone vibrated again.

“Head out, Locker Room.”

At one ten the intercom rang. The sound went straight through my chest. The cat lifted her head, looked at me like what the hell are you doing, and curled back up on the couch.

I pressed the button without saying a word. I heard footsteps on the stairs, slow, like he too was taking a breath between each step. When I saw him standing at the door, helmet under his arm, leather jacket still on and hair smashed down by the helmet, every line I’d rehearsed in my head fell apart.

“Hey, Locker Room,” he said.

His voice was deeper than it was over chat. Over chat you don’t hear a voice. I’d forgotten that at work he spoke with that low voice, like he was keeping something tucked away.

“Hey,” I said, and mine came out like a fifteen-year-old kid’s.

He came in. I closed the door slowly behind him. I offered him the beer, he took it, set it on the table without opening it, looked at me. I was standing in the middle of the living room like I’d forgotten what legs are for.

“Come here,” he said.

I did.

He grabbed my neck with both hands, no rush, and gave me the first kiss of my life with another man. It wasn’t a movie kiss. It was the kiss of someone who knows what he wants and got tired of waiting. He pressed me against the hallway wall, shoved his tongue all the way in, bit my lower lip with a calm that completely unraveled me. I felt his bulge against my hip, hard in his jeans, and without thinking I dropped my hand and squeezed it over the fabric. He growled into my mouth when I touched him. I squeezed harder, felt him move inside his pants, felt him pulse, and my mouth flooded with saliva.

“We’ve been at this for months,” he murmured against my ear.

“Yeah.”

“You know what you want to do, right?”

I didn’t answer. I sank down without saying anything. I knelt right there against the hallway wall, and when I started unbuckling his belt he grabbed my hair with one hand. Not hard. Just right. Enough to make me understand this wasn’t a favor or a gift: I was the one going after it.

I opened the button of his jeans with trembling fingers. I lowered the zipper slowly, hearing every tooth of it like a countdown. Underneath he had black briefs, tight, with the bulge pushing the fabric out and a dark stain at the tip where pre-cum had already soaked through. I pressed my face there first, against the cloth, and breathed. He smelled like a man, like leather, like a whole day of work, like hot cock waiting for me. I ran my tongue over the briefs, feeling the hard bulge throb against my mouth, and he let out a long breath through his nose and pulled my hair tighter.

“Take it out,” he said softly.

I hooked my fingers into the elastic of his briefs and yanked them down. And there it sprang out, against my face, so close it brushed my cheek. Damián’s cock. White, with thick veins running over it, the head pink and shining, exactly like I’d imagined it for months. A little bigger than I’d thought. Heavy balls, taut, hanging tight against shaved skin. I stared at it for two seconds, barely two, and felt a nervous laugh trapped in my chest without coming out.

“Suck it,” he told me. “That’s enough.”

I took it in my right hand at the base. It was heavy. I ran my tongue from the balls to the tip, slowly, feeling the thick vein underneath pulse against my tongue. I circled the glans with the tip, gathered the precum oozing from it and swallowed it. It tasted salty, a little sweet, like something I’d wanted to taste for years without knowing it. I opened my mouth and took it in.

The first time it went in halfway. I stopped there, felt it hot and firm against my tongue, and started bobbing my head. He let out a “fucking hell” that made me clamp my thighs because mine was dripping inside my shorts. I grabbed his balls with my other hand, kneaded them, felt them tighten against his body. I lowered my mouth a little more and gagged. I coughed, my eyes filled with water, a string of spit stretched from the corner of my mouth.

“Easy, Locker Room,” he said, and brushed his thumb over my wet cheek. “Slow.”

I tried again. I breathed through my nose, relaxed my throat, and this time I went down almost to the base. My nose bumped into his pubic bone and I stayed there a few seconds, with his cock running through my throat, feeling it throb inside. When I came back up for air I left a long strand of spit hanging between my mouth and the head. He looked at it and a growl escaped him.

“That’s it, that’s it, like a slut,” he said. “Look at me while you suck me off.”

I lifted my eyes and looked at him. His mouth was open, his breath ragged, his hair stuck to his forehead. With his hand he grabbed my hair and set the pace, pushing my head up and down at the speed he wanted. I stopped moving and left my mouth open, like an idiot, so he could use it however he wanted. And he did. He started driving my head onto his cock, deeper and deeper, faster and faster, and I choked and saliva ran down my chin and I didn’t give a shit about anything.

With my free hand I opened my shorts and grabbed mine. It was pouring, so wet my hand slid on its own. I started jerking off while he fucked my mouth. Every time he shoved it all the way in I clenched my fist harder around my own dick.

“You’re gonna make me cum like this,” he said.

I yelled yes with my mouth full. A “mmjmm” that vibrated against his dick and made him yank back. He pulled out, panting, with his cock all wet with spit hanging at my face level.

“Not yet,” he said. “Stand up.”

I stood up. My knees were shaking. He ripped my shirt off in one tug and shoved me against the hallway wall. He yanked my shorts down in one motion and grabbed my dick in his hand, squeezing it once from top to bottom, feeling how wet it was.

“Look how hard you’ve got me,” he murmured.

He turned me around against the wall. He pressed my face to the cold plaster and I offered him my ass, arching my back on its own, as if my body already knew what had to happen without asking my head for permission. I felt his fingers spreading my cheeks, and then the hot spit landing right there, on the hole. He smeared it with two fingers, pushed one finger inside, and made me tremble all over.

“You’ve never taken anything up there, have you?” he asked.

“No,” I said into the wall.

“You’ll see.”

He put in the second finger. It burned at first, I clenched up completely, and he waited. He moved his fingers inside me, slowly, looking for something, until he found a spot that made me let out a groan I didn’t recognize as mine. He laughed softly against my ear.

“There it is.”

He pulled his fingers out. I felt the head of his cock pressing against my hole, spat once more to make it slick, and pushed. The head went in all at once and I yelled against the wall, a muffled cry, biting my arm so I wouldn’t wake the whole building. He stayed there, with only the tip inside, breathing on the back of my neck.

“Breathe,” he told me.

I breathed. I loosened up. And when I loosened up, he pushed a little more. And a little more. Until I felt his balls pressed against my ass and realized he was all the way in. Damián’s cock, all of it, in my ass, the first cock of my life.

He started moving. At first slowly, pulling almost all the way out and sliding back in gently. Then faster. Then he grabbed my hips with both hands and started fucking me against the wall with a force that made the picture hanging beside us shake. My face was smashed against the plaster, my mouth open, spit running down me, and he was driving into me again and again, pulling out and slamming back in, knocking his balls against mine with every thrust.

“Whore,” he said in my ear. “Locker Room whore.”

“Yeah,” I panted. “Yeah.”

He grabbed my dick from behind while he kept fucking me. He started jerking me off to the rhythm of his thrusts, squeezing me with his whole hand, and I felt the shiver rise from my balls in less than a minute.

“I’m cumming,” I said.

“Come on, cum for me.”

I came against the wall. Streams and streams of cum against the plaster, my legs trembling, his cock pressed inside me with my ass as I came. He let out a low groan when he felt me clench around him, kept fucking me two, three more thrusts, and then buried himself to the hilt and filled me. I felt each hot surge inside me, one after another, while he bit my shoulder and dug his nails into my hip.

We stayed like that for a few seconds, him on top of me, cock inside, both of us breathing like horses. Then he pulled out slowly and I felt the warm semen run down the back of my thigh.

I turned around. Looked at him. He still had his cock hard, shining with cum and spit, and a tired smile. Without saying anything to him I knelt again and took him into my mouth. I cleaned him off completely with my tongue, swallowing everything left, every last drop. He looked down at me, mouth open.

“Jesus Christ, Locker Room,” he murmured.

What happened after that, Locker Room, I’m going to tell slowly. I’m going to tell it so slowly that when you read it, you’ll feel everything again. But first I need you to tell me if you want me to keep going. I swear this is real. And if you made it this far, Locker Room, send me a kiss on the tip when you read this, just like that night.