The Saturday I Told Him to Meet Me on the Corner at Nine

It happened a few months ago, in my own shop. I have a stationery store with a gift section in a neighborhood in the south, one of those small places where almost all the neighbors end up coming in once a week. I met him there, behind the counter, on a Thursday afternoon when he came in with his mother to buy school supplies for a niece.

He was a boy of about twenty-one, slim, with delicate features and long lashes that didn’t seem like they belonged to him. He spoke quietly. His mother had her bag hanging from her forearm and was checking the list with a harried expression. I was adding up prices on the calculator and, every so often, lifting my eyes to look at them.

At the counter I have a framed photo of Shakira from many years ago, a little trinket left there by the previous owner that I never quite dared to take down. The boy saw it while he was waiting for his change. He smiled, brushed his bangs into place, and told me, almost under his breath, that he looked like Shakira when he dressed up. I looked at his mother to see her reaction and she only smiled, saying nothing, as if she already knew the scene.

The second time they came together too. They bought wrapping paper, a gold ribbon, and two notebooks. When I handed him the bag, he lingered with his hands on the counter a second too long and told me, this time seriously, that he’d love to taste my milk. He said it like that, without inflection, looking me straight in the eye. I pretended I hadn’t understood. I took the change, handed it to him with both hands, and walked them to the door.

That night I thought about him more than I should have. My wife was asleep next to me and I lay there staring at the ceiling, trying to remember exactly how the line had sounded and how much boy was still left in that skinny body.

The third time he came alone. It was a hot afternoon, midweek, and the shop was almost empty. When I saw him coming up to the counter without his mother behind him, my stomach tightened a little. He asked for a pen and an A5 notebook, things he didn’t need. I rang him up slowly. Before he turned away, I asked him what he was doing that night.

—Nothing important —he said, shrugging slightly—. And you?

—I was thinking of inviting you to my room for a few drinks.

I said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world, without smiling, almost looking somewhere else.

—And your wife?

—Forget about her —I answered.

I told him I’d be waiting for him at nine on the corner by the traffic light, two blocks down from the shop. He nodded, paid, and left. I didn’t look at the door closing. I stayed there a while pretending to straighten the drawer.

At five to nine I crossed the avenue on the motorbike. He was there, wearing a thin jacket with his hands in his pockets, leaning against the kiosk sign. I killed the engine and waved him over.

—Get on.

He got on without asking anything and clung tightly to my waist.

My apartment is fifteen minutes away. We went up the stairs because the elevator had been broken for weeks. When I opened the door and turned on the living room light, he asked me again about my wife.

—For now I live alone —I said.

It was only half true. She had gone to stay at her parents’ place for a few days, but the boy didn’t need to know that.

—Make yourself comfortable. Want a drink?

He nodded yes, looking around as if he were taking the measure of the place. I took off his jacket, hung it on the rack, and poured two short glasses of whisky with a little ice.

We sat on the sofa, one at each end. We talked at first about nonsense, about the neighborhood, about a dog that had bitten a delivery guy the week before. The whisky went down fast. I poured him another. He started talking more, moving closer, resting his arm on the backrest. The conversation turned dirty almost without our noticing, until he told me, without looking at me, that what he liked most in bed was oral sex.

—And are you good at it? —I asked.

—Some people say I am.

—Then show me.

I said it softly, looking him straight in the eye. He lowered his gaze to the glass and smiled. I didn’t need to say it twice.

He knelt in front of the sofa without rushing, and slowly pulled down my pants. His hand trembled a little the first time he took hold of me, but it passed almost at once. He looked up at me from below, moistened his lips, and took me all the way in. I wasn’t exaggerating. He knew exactly what he was doing with his tongue, with his throat, with the hand he rested on my thigh. His mouth worked with a mix of hunger and patience, sucking the head, running his tongue underneath, swallowing me with a depth that made me tense my back against the sofa. Every time he lifted his head to breathe, he looked at me with calm insolence, as if he knew the effect he was having.

I closed my eyes. I gently took hold of the back of his neck, not to force him, just to feel him. He went up and down in a slow rhythm that sped up every few seconds. The saliva gleamed in his mouth, wet his chin, and stained my fingers when I guided him a little closer. When I lifted my hips, he knew what was coming and stayed still, taking it. I came into his mouth and he didn’t move. He swallowed everything and kept sucking a little longer, as if he wanted to make sure nothing was left. Then he ran his tongue over the glans, under the foreskin, cleaning me with an obscene precision that left my legs weak.

I looked at him from the sofa, breathing hard. He wiped one corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and smiled at me like a boy who had just been given a prize.

He sat down beside me. I passed him the glass, and he took a long swallow. I waited until I felt steady again —a matter of minutes at that age— and told him to take off his clothes and sit on top.

He didn’t ask anything. He stood up, took off his T-shirt, and pulled down his pants and boxers in one motion. His body was leaner than it looked clothed, but also more defined. He was hard. His cock pointed toward his navel, pink and taut, and he touched it for a moment with his hand, as if measuring his own arousal before coming closer to me again. He moistened his fingers with saliva, ran them along the shaft and the entrance to his asshole, and the gesture made me stare hard, swallowing dry.

He came closer, licked his fingers again, and wet himself. Then he climbed on top of me, looking me in the eye, and started to lower himself slowly. I felt how he tightened around me at first, how he tried to settle in, how he bit his lip every time he gave a little more. I gripped his hips. Not to push him, just to hold him.

—Easy —I told him—. Take all the time you need.

He lowered another inch and breathed hard. I stayed still, my back against the sofa and my head tipped back. When he finally got all the way down, he stayed there for a few seconds, seated on me, his forehead pressed to mine. His ass hugged my cock with a hot, wet pressure, and I felt the pulse beating inside while he slowly loosened, breathing in jerks, opening around me until it stopped hurting him.

The movement began. Slow at first, almost like rocking. Then a little faster. I watched his face, the brows drawing together, the mouth opening soundlessly. It was hard for me to hold out. Every time he settled all the way down, I felt a rush of heat from the base of my spine. His hands squeezed my chest, sliding over sweat. The sofa creaked with every rise and fall of his hips, and his ass opened and closed over me with more and more uninhibited violence, as if nothing mattered to him anymore except continuing to take me.

I grabbed his hips harder and started moving him myself, setting the pace. He let me, resting his hands on my chest. His legs were trembling. When I couldn’t hold back any longer, I pulled him against me and came inside him. I felt him widen his eyes and let out a short moan. Then he stayed still, not getting up, breathing with his mouth open against my neck. The feeling of my cum staying inside his ass made him shiver once more, briefly, as if he were still calculating how much he could take.

We stayed like that for a long while. Then he got up carefully, went to the bathroom, came back with a damp towel, and cleaned me. He did it with a strange calm, as if it were a routine he’d done before. He kissed my chest twice and lay down beside me on the sofa, pressed against me, his head on my shoulder.

***

That night it wasn’t only once. After a while I took him to bed and we started again. I put him against the mattress, face down, and spread his legs with my hands on his hips. I entered him from behind slowly, feeling him tighten again at first and then give way, letting out the air through clenched teeth as I settled inside. With one hand I lifted his pelvis and with the other I held his waist, pounding deep, over and over, in a heavy rhythm that drew short, broken moans from him each time my cock went in as far as he could stand it. Later I had him on his side, one leg held up, his back arched against my chest, his hand searching for my thigh to mark the rhythm for me. At some point in the early morning we lost count of the positions and the glasses of water we kept going to fetch from the kitchen. I put him on top again, made him lower himself slowly, filled him until he started trembling, and he answered with his legs open and his breath torn apart, asking me to keep going without quite saying it.

We fell asleep around five, wrapped around each other, without sheets, the fan turning above the bed. Before closing my eyes I heard him say something softly, almost to himself, that sounded like thank you.

I woke up with the first light, after nine. My hand was on his back and, once again, my groin was ready. I watched him sleep for a while. Then I brushed my thumb over his cheek.

—Wake up.

He opened his eyes slowly and smiled.

—So early?

—One more before we go.

He didn’t protest. He slipped under the sheet, took me in his mouth again, and worked with the same skill as the night before, this time more calmly, like someone who knows he has time. He licked me from the base to the tip, taking my whole cock into his mouth and pulling it out with a slow, steady suction, running his tongue over the frenulum until he made me tremble again. I grabbed his hair. I came in less than five minutes. He swallowed everything again and climbed up to give me a long kiss, tasting of me, while his jaw was still a little tight from sucking me dry.

We stayed embraced a little longer. Then we went to the bathroom and rinsed off in shifts in the shower, not talking much. I lent him a clean T-shirt because his had a stain on the neck. When we were dressed, I opened the door for him and we went down together in silence to the street.

I took him on the motorbike to the corner where I had picked him up the night before. Before he got off, I told him in his ear, without taking off my helmet:

—Next Saturday, nine o’clock, same place.

He turned, looked at me a second longer than necessary, and nodded.

I watched him cross the avenue, straighten his jacket, and put his hands in his pockets. I waited until he turned the corner and disappeared behind the kiosk. Then I started the bike and went home, thinking about how many Saturdays I could keep something like that going before my wife came back from her parents’ place.