The Night Rodrigo Invited His Ex to Dinner

Rodrigo and I had been together for two years, and in that time I learned that with him I always said yes. It wasn’t weakness—it was love, or something so close to it that the difference mattered little to me. I fell in love with the way he spoke, with the way he looked at me when I told him something, with the fact that he never gave me reasons to doubt him.

The idea came slowly, the way things come that Rodrigo knows need time. At first it wasn’t a direct proposal: it was an insinuation, then a question, then a conversation we started having at night, in bed, when darkness makes everything seem more manageable. He talked about including someone else. Not anyone: an ex, a man both of us knew in some way. I listened, felt that I should say no, and yet I didn’t.

In time, I understood what Rodrigo wanted. I understood it for real, without judging him: he wanted someone who would be available to both of us, a small, closed circle where everyone knew each other and nobody asked for more than they could give. I was his boyfriend, that was not up for debate. But there was something in him that wanted more, and I loved him too much not to listen.

I said yes.

Late one Tuesday he texted me: “Marco’s coming today. At eight.” I had the rest of the afternoon to prepare myself, though I’m not entirely sure what I was preparing for. When eight o’clock came and the doorbell rang, I opened the door, because Rodrigo was finishing cooking something in the kitchen, and I stood there for a second staring at the man on the threshold.

Marco was tall, with a defined jaw and a posture that gave the impression the space adapted to him, not the other way around. French, from Nantes, though he had been living here for three years working as an architect. Handsome in a direct way, with no apparent effort, with light eyes and a smile that took a little while to arrive but, when it did, was genuine.

“You must be Sebastián,” he said, extending his hand.

“The one and only,” I replied.

The three of us had dinner. Rodrigo had made pasta, opened a bottle of red wine he kept for occasions worth it, and the conversation flowed in a way I hadn’t expected. Marco and Rodrigo talked about things I wasn’t part of—a trip to Lisbon, people they had met together, a story about a bar in Berlin that the two of them remembered differently—but Marco knew how to include me.

He had that skill: at one point he steered the conversation toward me, asked about my work, my ideas, and truly listened. Not the way people fake interest while waiting for their turn to speak. He listened.

We toasted three times without saying why. There was no need.

I went to get water in the kitchen sometime between dessert and coffee, and when I came back I stopped in the doorway without either of them noticing me. Marco had his hand resting on Rodrigo’s thigh. It was a calm gesture, without urgency, the kind born of habit: a body remembering where it once felt good. Rodrigo didn’t move, but he didn’t lean away either. They were just talking.

And yet I felt something I recognized before I could name it. Jealousy. Clean, sharp. Jealousy of someone who knows things about my boyfriend that I don’t know.

I went in without saying anything, and Rodrigo noticed me immediately. He always notices me. He stood up, took me gently by the wrist, and led me to the center of the room, where we had the music on: a slow trumpet over a piano background, something he had chosen that afternoon.

He held me from behind. He kissed my neck, then turned me around and kissed me on the mouth, slowly, with all the intention in the world. A kiss for which I didn’t have to close my eyes because I already had them closed.

“You’re my boyfriend,” he whispered in my ear. “The one Marco fucks tonight is you, but my boyfriend is you. Don’t forget it.”

I didn’t need anything else.

***

Marco came closer without hurrying. He wrapped his arms around Rodrigo from behind, and the three of us stood in the middle of the room, adapting one rhythm to another. It was strange and it wasn’t strange: strange until it stopped being so, which is how everything worthwhile usually works.

We danced. Rodrigo between the two of us, me in front of him, Marco behind him. At some point Marco kissed my neck from the side, and the contact was so direct, so unexpected, that a moan slipped out of me and I felt my cock hardening against Rodrigo’s leg. He noticed right away: he lowered his hand, squeezed me over my pants, and whispered in my ear, “you’re already hard, my love.” Marco noticed too, because he slipped his hand between our bodies and squeezed my bulge from the other side, two different hands on me at the same time. Rodrigo was watching us. He smiled in that way of his that is half smile and half question.

We let ourselves fall onto the living room rug. It was a wordless decision: our bodies simply lowered themselves to the floor, unhurried, without anyone giving a signal. The light was still on, but low, and the music kept playing, though at some point during the night I stopped hearing it.

Rodrigo ended up between us, and it felt natural: Marco and I devoted ourselves to him. We took off his clothes piece by piece, slowly, without competing, as if we had rehearsed it. The shirt first. Then the belt, the pants. In the end we saw him naked on the rug and the two of us paused for a moment looking at him, each from a different angle. Rodrigo’s cock was hard against his stomach, thick, the head already shining with pre-cum. Marco let out a low whistle, almost to himself.

“Still the best cock I’ve ever sucked,” Marco said, and looked at me. “You’re about to find that out too, tonight.”

Rodrigo has a body that still surprises me after two years. Broad chest, dark hair on his sternum, strong, long legs. Marco ran his palm over Rodrigo’s stomach, calmly, until he closed his hand around his dick. He started jerking him off slowly, wrist turning at the tip, like someone who knows the manual. I leaned down and took it into my mouth as far as I could, feeling the hot weight against my tongue, the thick vein underneath, the salty taste of what he was already starting to leak.

We took turns without coordinating, without talking it through: one of us held him at the base while the other sucked him, then we switched. When Marco was sucking him, I went down on Rodrigo’s balls and licked them one by one, taking them into my mouth carefully and feeling how they tightened against his body. When I was sucking him, Marco pried my mouth open with two fingers and spat saliva over Rodrigo’s cock so I could take him deeper. Rodrigo grabbed both of us by the hair, not hard, just guiding, and let out short gasps, that breathing of his that only appears when he’s focused on not coming yet. I knew it. I knew what it meant.

“Easy, you bastards,” Rodrigo murmured, throwing his head back. “I want to last.”

Marco kissed well. I found that out when he leaned toward me during a pause and kissed me on the mouth, with Rodrigo’s cock still between us, the head brushing our cheeks. It was a precise, informed kiss, from someone who knows exactly how much pressure to use and when to ease off. I felt his tongue enter my mouth and carry away the taste of my boyfriend, mixing it with his own. I didn’t compete with that. I accepted it. I bit his lower lip and he smiled against my mouth.

Rodrigo opened his eyes and looked at both of us.

“Marco,” he said, “eat my boyfriend whole. Lick him all over. Make him nice and wet for me.”

And to me:

“You do the same to me. With your tongue. Leave nothing out.”

Marco started with my neck. He went down slowly: my chest, sucking my nipples one by one until they were hard and red, biting them just to the point where it hurt and felt good at the same time. My abdomen, my hip bone, my groin. When he reached my cock he deliberately passed it by, kissed the insides of my thighs, and only then came back up and swallowed it whole in one motion, down to the base, without breathing. I felt his throat tight around my tip and had to bite the rug to keep from coming right there. There’s no way to prepare for that. You can only take it.

And he kept going down. He spread my legs with both hands, threw them up against my chest, and ran his tongue over my hole from top to bottom, slow, broad. He ate me like he was hungry, burying his face against me, tonguing me, sucking my hole until I started shaking. He spat and kept going. One finger first, then two, curling them, looking for that spot inside that made my eyes fly open.

“This boy’s fucking tight,” he told Rodrigo, without taking his fingers out. “You keep him well tucked away, huh?”

“Only for me,” Rodrigo said.

“Tonight for me too,” Marco answered, and went back down with his mouth.

I focused on Rodrigo, as he had asked me to. I kissed his chest, the hair on his sternum, each rib one by one. I licked his nipples, bit them slowly, and he dug his fingers into the back of my neck. I went down his stomach, his thighs, his hip bone. I licked his balls again, one by one, and then lower, over the perineum, to where I knew he liked me to reach. I lifted his legs the way Marco had lifted mine and ate his ass with my mouth open, shamelessly, while he muttered a curse under his breath and grabbed my hair with both hands.

I kissed the soles of his feet, something I know he likes even though he rarely asks for it. I kissed his armpits, his neck, his jaw. By the time I got back to the center of his body his cock was dripping pre-cum against his stomach and he had no patience left, and neither did I.

Marco stepped away for a moment, took a condom and a bottle of lube from the pants he had left aside, and passed both to Rodrigo. Rodrigo put the condom on slowly, looking at me. He slicked his cock with lube and smeared me with two fingers, pushing them in all the way with a sure motion, curling them, opening me up.

I sat on him. Slowly, carefully, adjusting to that first moment that always takes one second longer than one expects. I felt the thick head forcing its way in, the familiar burn, the instant the body gives and lets it pass. I sank down all the way with a long moan, until I felt his balls against my ass. Rodrigo held me by the hips and didn’t move until I started moving. Then he closed his eyes and began thrusting from below, in short, precise strokes, hitting me with his cock exactly where he knew it would land.

“Just like that, my love,” I told him, more to myself than to him. “Just like that, daddy, harder.”

Marco knelt in front of Rodrigo and offered himself. At some point he had taken off all his clothes and had a long, slightly curved, cut cock. Rodrigo took it without opening his eyes, just opening his mouth. Marco took him by the jaw and started fucking his mouth slowly, pushing to the back, pulling out, pushing in again. I rode Rodrigo while Rodrigo let Marco use his mouth, and the three of us became connected in that way: one man’s movement affecting the next, a chain with no clear beginning. Every thrust of Marco’s into Rodrigo’s throat made Rodrigo moan with his cock inside me, and that vibration rose through me to the tip of mine, which bounced against his stomach without anyone touching it.

There’s something in that I don’t know how to describe. It’s not just desire. It’s a kind of boundless intimacy, intense and silent at the same time.

Rodrigo asked us to get on all fours, one beside the other. Marco to my left, on the rug, with the steady posture of someone who has nothing to prove. Rodrigo stood behind us. He changed the condom, put on more lube, and I heard him spread it over his cock with that quick hand I know by heart.

He started with Marco. He grabbed his hips, shoved it in at once—Marco let out a deep grunt that came from his chest—and started fucking him with long, deep thrusts that made a wet sound each time his hips hit Marco’s ass. Four or five minutes, slowly, while I listened to the two of them breathing, the thuds of skin on skin, and stared ahead not really knowing where to put my eyes. Marco jerked himself off with his left hand while Rodrigo rode him from behind. Then he switched. He slid to me and entered all at once, wet and warm from having been with Marco, and the contrast was exactly as intense as it sounds. I had to rest my forehead on my forearms and let out a long gasp, almost a whimper.

“This feels so good,” Rodrigo murmured behind me, smacking my ass hard enough for the sound to carry through the whole room. “Two open asses for me.”

He kept alternating. Marco, me, Marco, me. The rhythm was his, and neither of us complained. There was something almost hypnotic about waiting: knowing he was going to leave, knowing he was going to come back, feeling his absence as something physical accumulating in the void. When he returned it was better, deeper, and each time he fucked me a little harder, as if the pause charged the flesh. At one point Marco turned his face toward me and we kissed like that, on all fours, while Rodrigo was pounding into me from behind, our tongues tangling and saliva dripping between us. Marco reached out and took my cock, started jerking me off in time with Rodrigo’s thrusts, and I did the same with him. We jerked each other off while my boyfriend used us both in turn.

I don’t know how long we stayed like that. The clock was on the other side of the room and no one looked at it.

When Rodrigo noticed I was close, he pulled out of me, yanked the condom off, and ordered us both to kneel in front of him. We both knelt and finished him with our mouths. We took turns: Marco held him by the base and I sucked him, then I held him and Marco took him down to his throat. In the end we passed him between us, our tongues joined under the head, and Rodrigo jerked himself over us, keeping the rhythm until he reached the edge. When he did he looked at us both—just for a second, but a long one—and came over our faces, thick, hot streams spilling into our mouths, over our cheeks, our foreheads. It wasn’t obscene. It was intimate, in a way I hadn’t anticipated. Marco and I kissed with his semen between our lips, passing it back and forth without thinking, swallowing it down.

Then he sat on the rug and told us to jerk off over him. The two of us did it kneeling beside him, unhurried, cocks in hand, while Rodrigo looked at us in turn and spoke in a low voice: “Like that, for me, cum on me both of you.” Marco came first, with a short, contained moan, spilling white over Rodrigo’s chest. I held on a few seconds longer and came over him too, mixing my cum with his on my boyfriend’s skin. Rodrigo lay back, eyes closed, his chest shining with both our semen, and that small smile I’ve only seen in the moments that matter most to him.

***

We fell asleep on the rug, the three of us tangled together. Marco was to Rodrigo’s right, I was to his left. Rodrigo had one arm over each of us. At some point in the early hours someone moved toward the bedroom and we ended up in the bed, though I don’t really remember how we got there.

The next morning Marco left early. He had work, he said, though I think he simply knew when it was time to go. He has that sort of discretion. At the door he gave Rodrigo a hug that lasted just long enough, shook my hand, and said it had been a night worth having. Then he went down the stairs and disappeared.

Rodrigo closed the door and stood looking at it for a second. Then he turned to me.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m okay,” I said.

It was true. I was okay in a way I hadn’t expected to be, which is the kind of okay that surprises you most.

We agreed to do it again, though without setting a date. With Rodrigo I learned that good things aren’t forced: they happen when they happen, and what’s worth it always waits.

The night with Marco didn’t change us. It completed us, for a few hours, and the next morning we were still the same two people. His hand over mine at breakfast, the coffee he always makes too strong, the habit of not talking much until after midday. Everything the same.

Only I looked at him and kept seeing the man I had fallen in love with. That doesn’t change so easily.

I’m still in love.