The Number a Tourist Gave Me on the Seafront Promenade

Running is the only thing that keeps me sane after five years working in a windowless office. Three or four mornings a week I head out to do my route along the seafront promenade: eight kilometers between the lighthouse and the marina roundabout, and back. That Saturday morning was no different. I’d finished my set and was on the dry grass, stretching, when a shadow stopped beside me.

—Excuse me, do you know how to get to Market Square?

I looked up. He was a guy in his early twenties, a head shorter than me, with dark hair tousled by the wind and a small backpack slung over one shoulder. He was wearing shorts and a white T-shirt clinging to his body. An accent that wasn’t from here, maybe from the south.

—Go up this street two blocks, turn right, and you’ll see it at the end —I said, not really thinking, still breathing hard.

—Thanks. I’m here as a tourist, I got in last night and I’m still getting lost —he smiled.

I nodded and went back to my stretching. A few seconds passed. When I lifted my head again, he was still there, staring at me fixedly.

—You have a great body —he said, not lowering his voice—. If you ever want a blowjob like you’ve never had before, here’s my number.

He held out a little folded piece of paper. I laughed almost on reflex, not knowing what face to make. He laughed too, shrugged, and kept walking up the promenade as if he’d just been talking about the weather.

I stayed there with the paper in my hand, sitting in the grass. I was thirty-two years old, had a pretty active sex life with women, and up to that moment I had never, ever done anything with a man. Not curiosity. Not even drunk. But there it was, me reading the number written in ballpoint and a name underneath: Iván.

I stuffed it in my shorts pocket and jogged home, not thinking.

***

Under the shower I tried not to remember. It didn’t work. While the hot water ran down my back, Iván’s image came to me: his half-smile, the calm with which he’d handed me the paper, the way his shorts clung to his ass when he walked away up the promenade. It was a small, round ass, too tight to belong to a man.

I realized I was hard. I took hold of myself with my soapy hand and came in less than a minute, staring at the white bathroom tiles. Afterward I felt strange. As if I’d made a call I hadn’t planned to make.

That afternoon I wanted to put on a load of laundry. I took the shorts out of the basket, looked for any forgotten bills in the pockets —it’s a habit— and my fingers pulled out the little note. I unfolded it on the kitchen table. The number was there, written in a careful hand I hadn’t expected.

It’s Saturday. I have no plans. I can go have a beer with him and that’s it.

That’s what I told myself while dialing. A complete lie.

He picked up on the second ring, as if he had the phone in his hand.

—It’s the guy from the promenade this morning —I said.

—I know. I was waiting for you.

—I don’t believe you.

—Then don’t believe me —he laughed—. Why don’t you pick me up at my apartment? I’ll send you the address.

Two hours later I was standing in front of his door wearing a gray shirt I never wore and far too much cologne. I rang the bell. Iván opened right away, barefoot, in gray sweatpants and with that same half-smile.

—Well, I’m lucky today —he said, looking me up and down—. Fair warning: I’m coming with an appetite.

He ran his tongue over his upper lip. It wasn’t exaggerated, it wasn’t cartoonish. It was exact. I got hard again against the fabric of my pants and he noticed.

—Then show me that magic mouth you were talking about —I said, barely recognizing my own voice.

***

The apartment smelled of coffee and candles. He led me into the living room without saying anything, pushed me gently onto the sofa, and knelt between my legs like someone doing something he’d done a thousand times. He tugged my pants and underwear down in one pull.

—Relax and enjoy —he whispered.

After that I stopped thinking.

He started with the head, lips closed, slowly going down, as if measuring me. I felt the wet warmth of his mouth opening, his tongue pressing against the base of my foreskin. He wasn’t in a hurry. He went up and down with a rhythm all his own, looking at me every now and then with his eyes open, checking what was happening on my face.

And my face must have been a sight, because when he took me out for a moment to catch his breath, he let out a short laugh.

—I told you —he murmured.

—Shut up.

I grabbed the back of his head and shoved my cock into his mouth again, this time all the way. I thought he’d choke. He gagged a little, but he didn’t pull away. On the contrary: he settled in, opened his throat, and started moving on me on his own, with both hands braced on my thighs.

No one had ever blown me like that. I mean it. It was like he knew exactly when to ease up and when to tighten, when to pull back almost all the way and when to swallow me whole. Saliva ran down his chin and dripped onto my balls. His eyes were watering and he didn’t seem to care.

Why did I wait so many years for this?

That question shot through my head a second before I realized I couldn’t hold back any longer. I wanted to warn him, opened my mouth to say something, but he understood before I did. He closed his lips around the base of my cock and pushed his head down.

—And now swallow it —I groaned.

I came into his mouth in four or five long shudders. Iván swallowed without letting go, eyes closed, and when he was done he licked me clean without rushing, almost tenderly.

—Unbelievable —I said.

—I told you so —he repeated, licking a drop that had stayed on his lip—. Want more?

—I just came. Give me a minute.

—Leave it to me.

***

I didn’t know what he meant until he gently pushed me back, lifted both my legs onto the sofa back, and settled between them. The first touch of his tongue made my whole body jerk, not from pleasure but from surprise. No one had ever done that to me.

—Wait —I said.

—No.

And he kept going. Slowly. First on the outside, pulling my cheeks apart with both hands, dragging his tongue flat from top to bottom. He spit a couple of times and licked again, now more in the center, tighter. The sensation was new, warm, humiliating, and too good all at once. I closed my eyes.

Then I felt the tip of his tongue pressing against my asshole. He wasn’t forcing his way in, just pressing with exactly the right amount. My body resisted at first and then, without me deciding it, gave in. Iván’s tongue went in and everything in my head disappeared. I heard myself let out a moan I didn’t recognize.

As promised, I was hard again.

Iván pulled back, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and took my cock in his hand again. But now I didn’t want more mouth. I wanted something else.

—I already know your mouth —I said, grabbing his chin—. I want to try your ass.

He raised his eyebrows. For the first time all afternoon he seemed to hesitate.

—I hardly ever do that —he replied—. Everyone wants me to suck them because I’m good at it. Hardly ever my ass.

—When was the last time?

—A year and a half ago. Maybe two.

—Perfect. Then you’ll be tight. Take off your pants and lie face down over my thighs.

I said it with a confidence I didn’t entirely feel. Iván stayed still for a second, looking at me. Then he stood up and pulled down his sweats in one motion. He wasn’t wearing anything underneath. His legs were slim, almost hairless. When he lay over me I could tell he was trembling a little.

***

His ass was exactly what I had imagined that morning in the shower: small, round, completely shaved, with very pale skin. I spread his cheeks apart with both hands and stared for a moment, hardly believing it.

—Be careful, please —he whispered against my thigh.

I put my middle finger in my mouth, wet it well, and spat onto his asshole too. Then I pushed in slowly. I found resistance, of course, and he jerked.

—Not so deep —he murmured.

I ignored him. I worked my finger in and out, slowly at first and then a little faster, feeling how he was loosening around my knuckle. I added my index finger. The pressure on my fingers was brutal.

—Let me feel it —he said suddenly, and his voice came out odd—. Your cock.

—I don’t think you’re ready yet. But if you want. Turn over.

He sat up, lay back on the cushions, and looked up at me from below. He seemed even smaller like that, with his cock raised against his belly button and a bright wet patch at the tip. I knelt between his legs and pulled his knees up against my chest.

I took my cock, lined it up against his asshole, and pushed.

As expected, there was a lot of resistance. I pushed a little harder. Suddenly, the head slid inside the sphincter and I felt the heat close around it. Iván opened his eyes wide and bit his lip to keep from crying out.

—Slowly —he said.

I was in no mood for slowly. I spat into my hand, wet the base, and pushed again, this time without stopping, until I felt his body against my hips. I had buried it all the way in.

—Now fuck me properly —said Iván, in a new voice, rough, much more adult than the one at the door.

He didn’t have to tell me twice. I started moving slowly, testing him, and then immediately faster. The sofa began to creak. The skin of Iván’s ass slapped against my thighs with a dry sound that made me even harder. I grabbed his cock with my hand and started pumping it to the rhythm of my thrusts. He moaned, muttered a couple of words I didn’t understand, and I felt him clamping down even tighter around me.

It was impossible to hold out. When I felt myself about to come, I yanked my cock out of his ass and came over his open asshole, then over his belly, with two longer spurts than I could ever remember having. Iván came a second later in my hand, splattering his navel and chest.

I shoved my cock into him again for a moment, just to feel that tight heat once more. Iván chuckled under his breath.

—You bastard —he said, without opening his eyes.

Then, true to form, he leaned forward and cleaned my cock with his mouth. That was his way of closing the scene. I let him do it.

***

I haven’t seen Iván again. He went back to his city the next day and, from what he told me, he doesn’t know when he’ll be able to come by here again. But he promised me he’ll be back. And I believe him, because he calls me every two or three weeks, almost always late, to ask whether I’m still keeping that folded little piece of paper from the morning on the beach.

I tell him yes. Even though I memorized it a long time ago.