The Night Rodrigo Discovered My Secret

Rodrigo and I have been friends for more than twenty years, ever since we sat together in first grade and he stole my red pencil without asking. We argued that first morning with the intensity only six-year-olds can manage, and by the next day we were inseparable. What nobody understood then, and many still don’t understand now, is how two such different people can keep choosing each other after so long.

He’s the kind of guy who loves parties until dawn, easy drinks, constant noise, and the chaos of a life lived without much calculation. I prefer a good conversation, a movie at home, going out for a walk in the mornings before the world fills up with people. He treats his body like conquered territory; I’ve spent years taking care of myself, not out of vanity, but because I like feeling good inside my own skin.

In short: we have nothing in common, except twenty years of shared history that weighs more than any difference in character.

I told him I was gay when we were seventeen. I said it with more fear than necessary, because I knew him well and knew he wouldn’t react badly, but you can never be completely sure about these things. He fell silent for a moment, nodded slowly, asked if I wanted another soda, and that was that. He kept introducing me to his women, telling me about his exploits, asking me for advice he never followed. Everything went on exactly the same.

Until just over a month ago.

That night was just another party on his list: too many people, too much noise, and Rodrigo getting lost with every round of drinks. I kept an eye on him from a distance for a good while, knowing that at some point he was going to need someone to rescue him. When I saw him try to get up from a chair and almost fall on top of the person next to him, I went over before anything worse could happen.

I got him out of there with my arm around his shoulders, put him in a taxi, and took him back to his apartment. It wasn’t the first time I’d done that; we had a well-established system for these situations, which repeated with some regularity.

I undressed him with the efficiency of someone who has done it before: shirt, pants, socks. I laid him flat on his back in bed and reached for the sheet to cover him.

That was when I saw it.

I had never seen him like that before, or maybe I had never allowed myself to really look.

Rodrigo’s cock hung heavy over his thigh, thick even at rest, with that curve that cocks have when a guy’s got a big one and doesn’t need to do anything to show it off. The head peeked out from under the half-drawn foreskin, shiny, and a couple of thick veins ran along the shaft. His balls, swollen and low, spilled onto the sheet. I swallowed without meaning to.

I stood there beside the bed, not knowing for how long. Rodrigo slept with that deep, peaceful heaviness of the thoroughly drunk, completely oblivious to everything. I told myself it was wrong, that he was my best friend, that I needed to cover him and leave. I told myself that with plenty of conviction while I pulled the sheet over him.

I went to the guest room, lay down, and couldn’t sleep.

I’d been staring at the ceiling for a while with my cock hard against my stomach when I started convincing myself I was only going to check that he was okay. That he didn’t need water. That he wasn’t uncomfortable.

A lie so transparent it almost made me ashamed of myself. But I went anyway.

I walked barefoot down the dark hallway to his room. I lifted the sheet carefully, glancing at his face to make sure he was still asleep. My heart was beating harder than the situation warranted.

I leaned down slowly.

I took him in one hand, feeling him heavy and hot in my palm, and noticed how he started to respond before I did anything deliberate. He thickened between my fingers, lengthening on its own, the head forcing its way out of the foreskin until it was fully exposed. That involuntary response was enough to make me lose the last shred of common sense I had left.

I stuck out my tongue and licked from his balls to the tip, slowly, following the thick vein along the shaft. When I reached the head I took it into my mouth a centimeter at a time, careful not to scrape him with my teeth, until I felt the tip against the back of my throat. I pulled it out, breathed, and went back down. Rodrigo was rock-hard inside my mouth, thick, salty, with that taste of sleeping skin that had my cock dripping without anyone touching it yet.

I started sucking him with a slow, careful rhythm, my tongue wrapping around the head on every upward stroke, my hand working the base so I wouldn’t lose a single millimeter. With my other hand I pulled my own cock out of my pants and started jerking off at the same time, so hard that the slightest caress made me shiver. I licked his balls one by one, kissed them, took them into my mouth while I kept stroking him slowly with a closed fist.

Rodrigo didn’t move once. He didn’t open his eyes. But his cock got even harder against my palate, and on a couple of occasions he breathed deeper, with a heavy sigh that made me squeeze my thighs together. I sucked the tip harder, pulling the pre-cum out with my tongue, swallowing it like it was the only thing I needed in the world. The warmth of that cock inside my mouth was enough to bring me right to the edge without me hardly noticing.

I came in silence, my forehead pressed to the mattress, my own semen running down my fingers and dripping onto the carpet. I kept my mouth full of him a few seconds longer, still, listening to him breathe.

When it was over I covered him again, went to the bathroom, washed my hands and face, and stood looking at myself in the mirror for a moment without fully recognizing who I was. Then I went back to the guest room and didn’t sleep all night.

***

Three weeks later, a group of friends organized a trip to the coast. There were six of us: Rodrigo, Tomás with his girlfriend, a couple we’d known for years, and me. We rented an apartment half a block from the beach for five days, the kind of place where the sun and the wine make everything seem less complicated than it is.

Rodrigo brought Valentina, a girl he’d been seeing for a few weeks. From the very first breakfast I noticed something odd between them. She arrived full of enthusiasm; he, with the polite distance of someone fulfilling an obligation that no longer convinced him. At the table, while Valentina talked, Rodrigo looked at the sea and nodded with that one-second delay that gives away the fact that you’re not really listening.

My friends, with the reckless generosity of people already in relationships, took it upon themselves to introduce me to every single man who crossed the beach. On the fourth day one of them caught my attention: Esteban, a quiet guy who rented the cabin next door and showed up with a surfboard he clearly didn’t know how to use. We folded him into the group without much ceremony, drank beers on the terrace, and when night moved along and the others started heading up to sleep, we were left alone.

We ended up in my room.

As soon as I closed the door Esteban shoved me against it and shoved his tongue down my throat, one hand already pulling my pants down. I unclasped his belt without stopping kissing him, tugged down his boxer briefs, and pulled out his cock, medium-sized but hard as a rock, the head already wet. I knelt and took it in my mouth in one go, swallowing it whole, hearing him let out a long gasp toward the ceiling.

I sucked him for a while on my knees, both hands braced on his thighs, while he buried his fingers in my hair. Then he lifted me, threw me face-down on the bed, and spread my ass cheeks with his hands. I felt his hot tongue between them, going in and out, soaking my whole ass for several minutes until I was drenched and open. I asked him to fuck me and he didn’t think twice: he put on the condom, lined my hips up against his stomach, and drove his cock all the way in with one thrust.

He fucked me firmly, without hurry, with his chest pressed to my back and one hand around my cock, jerking me in time with his hips. Then he turned me over, lifted my legs up onto his shoulders, and fucked me again while looking into my eyes, giving it to me deeper and deeper until I felt his balls slapping my ass with every thrust. He came inside the condom with a rough grunt, while I shot thick ropes over my own stomach.

When he left around one in the morning — he had to get up early, he explained — I stayed in bed with the only cigarette I allow myself after sex.

Someone knocked at the door.

Rodrigo came in without waiting for an answer, in shorts, with the face of someone who’s been pacing around his room for a while unable to sleep. He sat on the edge of the bed, took the cigarette from my fingers with complete ease, and took a long drag.

“How was it?” he asked.

“Good. He had to get up early.”

“Ah.”

He looked toward the window. Outside, the sea was breaking slowly and the air smelled of salt.

“Valentina and I aren’t doing well,” he said. “In bed, especially. We don’t click. I fuck her and I can’t even get fully hard, man.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. Rodrigo took another drag on the cigarette and then turned his head to look straight at me.

“I realized something that night in the apartment,” he said, with a calm I hadn’t expected. “When you took me home drunk to sleep. I wasn’t as asleep as you thought. I felt perfectly how you were sucking me off.”

The cigarette went still between my fingers.

“It didn’t bother me,” he went on. “Not at all. You got me so hard it was hard not to come in your mouth right there.”

I wasn’t going to be the one to say the next word. Rodrigo held my gaze without looking away, and it was him who closed the distance between us. He grabbed the back of my neck with one hand, pressed his mouth to mine, and kissed me like he’d been thinking about it for weeks, his tongue coming in decisively, the taste of cigarette mixed with the rum he’d had earlier.

I yanked down his shorts and found his cock already hard, even thicker than I remembered from that night. I knelt in front of him on the carpet and took him like before, but this time without the weight of fear on me, without the anguish of doing something he didn’t know about. His hands found my nape.

“Like that,” he said, with a voice I’d never heard before. “Suck it like that, like that night.”

I swallowed his cock whole, letting it reach the back of my throat, my eyes full of tears and saliva running down my chin and onto his balls. I took the rhythm he set with his hips, slow at first and with more pressure after, feeling him tense more and more as time passed. I licked his balls, nibbled the skin on the inside of his thighs, and when I went back to his cock I took it with my whole mouth, soaking it all over with my tongue, making noise on purpose so he could see I was enjoying it.

“Fuck,” he murmured, grabbing my hair with both hands now. “You do it a thousand times better than she does.”

When I felt him near the edge I pulled away and looked up at him, my lips swollen and my chin shining.

“I want to feel you inside.”

He got up, I turned around, leaned over the bed with my palms flat on the mattress and my ass lifted toward him. I heard him spit into his hand and run it over his cock; then I felt his fingers opening me up, wetting me, one first and then two, driving them in to the knuckles while I arched my back and begged him to hurry. Rodrigo entered slowly, adjusting the pace until he was fully inside, and stayed still for a moment as if measuring something. I felt him thick, hot, filling me completely.

Then he started moving.

At first with slow, deep thrusts, pulling almost all the way out and then driving back in to the hilt, ripping a moan from me with every shove. He grabbed my hips and sped up, fucking me harder and harder, the bed slamming against the wall, the sound of his belly hitting my ass filling the whole room. He covered my mouth with one hand when he realized I was making too much noise.

“Shut up,” he whispered in my ear, without stopping to thrust. “You’ll wake everybody up.”

He pulled his cock out, turned me face-up, lifted my legs, and sank back in while looking at my face. He fucked me like that for a long while, my ankles beside his ears, his eyes fixed on the way his cock went in and out of me, shiny with saliva and his own fluids. He grabbed my cock and started jerking me off at the same time he was fucking me, with that natural skill guys have when they know themselves well.

We found the rhythm without words, the two of us adjusting to each other with a naturalness that surprised me. The pace kept building until neither of us had much control over anything, and when the moment came we finished within seconds of each other. Him first, plunging all the way in and staying there, clenching his teeth as he filled the condom with spasms I felt one by one; me immediately after, coming over my own stomach in thick bursts, my back arched and my breathing cut short, while he kept moving slowly inside me to squeeze out the last tremors.

Neither of us spoke for a while. Rodrigo took off the condom, tied it off, tossed it in the trash, and reached for the cigarette abandoned in the ashtray. He finished it standing by the window, naked, looking out at the dark sea through the half-open blind, his cock still only half-soft between his legs.

“This doesn’t mean anything weird,” he said at last. “I’m just really horny, that’s all.”

“Sure,” I said. “Me too.”

***

That was four weeks ago.

Since then we’ve repeated it so many times that we almost believe it ourselves: it doesn’t mean anything, it’s just lust, we’re still the same friends as always. And in a way that’s true. On the Monday after any encounter we show up exactly as always, no drama, no conversation that starts with “we need to talk.”

Rodrigo has an energy that doesn’t burn out easily. Last week he showed up at my apartment on a Tuesday at noon, with that smile I now recognize from far away, and we ended up in the shower with hot water running over us, his cock buried deep in my ass and his hands gripping my hips against the tiles. He fucked me against the wall while I jerked off, until he came inside me with a growl that bounced off the tiles.

The Sunday before that it was in a shopping mall parking lot, inside his car with the windows completely fogged up. I sucked him off kneeling between his legs on the driver’s seat, swallowing him whole until my mouth filled with hot, thick cum, unable to swallow it all. Afterward he jerked me off with his own cum sliding from the corner of my lips, and his free hand over my mouth when I started making too much noise as I came.

One afternoon at his aunt’s house, while she was making coffee in the kitchen, he whispered in my ear to wait. We didn’t wait long: he dragged me into the hallway bathroom, pulled my pants down to my knees, bent me over the sink and shoved his cock into me dry with just a little saliva, covering my mouth with his hand so I wouldn’t scream while he drove it all the way in with short, restrained thrusts. He came inside me in less than three minutes, silently, biting my shoulder so he wouldn’t groan.

I don’t know what to call this. And I don’t think finding a name for it is urgent.

What I do know is that the two of us arrive at every encounter knowing exactly what we want, with no negotiations and no ambiguity. That the twenty years we carry between us make everything easier, more natural, without the awkwardness that comes with the unknown. That Rodrigo now knows precisely what he likes — having his cock sucked slowly until he’s right on the edge, making me come on top of his cock while he drives it all the way in — and I like giving it to him.

According to him, he’s not gay. He does it with me because he’s simply horny.

According to me, I don’t like him. I do it with him because I’m simply horny.

The truth is that every week we end up the same way: with our asses full of his cum, exhausted, satisfied, and exactly as much friends as ever.