The Stranger from the Cove Who Fulfilled My Fantasy

I’m heterosexual. Or at least that’s what I’ve called myself for the past thirty-odd years. I like women, I desire them, I seek them out. But since I was seventeen, I’ve had a curiosity I never quite knew how to name or where to put.

It wasn’t something that came on all at once. It was a slow accumulation of unanswered questions, of nights spent alone imagining situations I shouldn’t have been imagining. Back then I was painfully shy and had a hard time talking to girls; my body wanted experiences my head didn’t know how to get. So I began to explore on my own: my own body, my limits, what I liked. And in that exploration, the curiosity appeared about what it would be like with a man.

The years went by. I lost my shyness, had girlfriends, had affairs. My sex life with women was active and satisfying. But the fantasy was still there, intact, like a locked drawer I checked from time to time without ever quite opening.

What I’m going to tell happened two summers ago, in a coastal town on the Colombian Caribbean. I had gone on vacation with three friends, but they had to leave early because of work. I had bought my flights separately and stayed four days alone, with no concrete plan, intending to rest and get a little lost.

***

One afternoon I rented a kayak and paddled to a small cove about forty minutes from shore, a place the locals called La Colorada. It was a quiet spot, half hidden behind some rocks, where people went to swim away from the mass tourism. I got there, tied the kayak to a rock outcrop, jumped into the water a couple of times, and then sat down on the flat rocks to dry off.

There he was.

His name was Diego and he was about my age, maybe a couple of years younger. He had also arrived by kayak, also alone. We greeted each other the way two strangers do who share a small space, and a calm conversation unfolded, unhurried. He told me he was in town with his girlfriend, but she preferred the hotel pool and he needed to move around. That he hadn’t spoken to anyone other than her or the breakfast waiter in three days.

We laughed. I told him my story.

Before setting off to paddle back, we agreed to meet that night. He knew a bar near the pier where they played vallenato and sold cold beers. I had hours to kill before I’d start getting bored alone in my room.

***

The bar was exactly as he’d described it: small, noisy, with plastic chairs and a fridge full of bottles. I got there first and ordered two beers. Diego arrived ten minutes later, changed clothes and with his hair still wet.

We spent a couple of hours there, drinking and talking about our lives, work, travel, the things people talk about when they have nothing to hide from a stranger. After that we went to a nightclub in the area where there were plenty of people and loud music. We tried talking to women. Neither of us managed anything, but we didn’t really try very hard either. The alcohol was already doing its part and the night was becoming looser, less pretentious.

At two in the morning we decided to walk back. My hotel was ten minutes away, his a little farther.

We were on the main street, both half doubled over laughing at something I can’t remember anymore, when he started imitating a tourist he had danced with earlier, with exaggerated movements and everything. And in the middle of the imitation he pressed up behind me, his hips against mine, his hands on my shoulders. It lasted two seconds. We laughed. We kept walking.

But I noticed something. I felt his bulge against my ass, even if only for an instant, and my cock moved on its own inside my pants. And I think he noticed too, because when he pulled away his breathing was a little heavier than that stupid joke would have justified.

I asked him if he wanted to continue the night in my room; I’d bought a few extra beers in case we ended up bringing company back. We didn’t bring company back, but the beers were there.

He said yes without thinking.

***

My room was small but had a terrace with a view of the sea. We put on low music, opened the beers, and sat on the terrace for a while. The conversation drifted on its own, without either of us pushing it too hard. From work we moved on to relationships, from relationships to sex. I don’t know who took the first thematic step, but at some point we were talking about what we liked and what made us curious, and neither of us put on the brakes. I confessed that I’d always wanted to know what it felt like to have a cock in my mouth. He told me, looking out at the sea, that sometimes he jerked off thinking about being fucked. He said it like someone confessing a sin he had never before put into words.

There was a long silence.

I was leaning against the terrace doorframe, beer in hand, with an uncomfortable erection pressing me against the seam of my pants. He was sitting in the chair in front of me, feet on the railing, and from where I was looking at him the bulge under the light fabric of his shorts was obvious. He looked at me in a different way than he had all night, and I looked back the same way.

“I’ve never done this before,” he said, indicating the space between us with a vague gesture.

“Me neither,” I answered.

No more needed to be said.

***

We went into the room. There was only one bed, like the best possible cliché, and we both knew it and neither of us cared. We sat on the edge, side by side, finished our beers in silence, and after a moment that lasted longer than it should have, we turned toward each other at the same time.

The first touch was awkward. It wasn’t an immediate kiss, but a slow approach, as if we both needed to confirm the other really wanted this before crossing that line. His forehead brushed mine. His hand found my side. And then we kissed.

It was strange. Not unpleasantly so, but strange in the sense of the unknown: his rough jaw against mine, the different way he pressed, the absence of the curves I was used to. But there was also something that lit me up in a way I hadn’t expected, something rawer and more direct than any kiss I’d given before. I pushed my tongue into his mouth and he welcomed it, sucking on it, biting my lower lip. His hand slid from my side to my crotch and squeezed my cock over my pants without any detour. A gasp escaped me into his mouth.

“You’re rock hard, motherfucker,” he murmured against my lips, with a half-nervous smile.

“You too,” I answered, feeling the bulge and sensing his cock jump under my hand.

We fell backward onto the bed.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his mouth still close to mine.

“Yeah,” I said. It was the truth.

We touched each other without rushing: hands exploring, bodies getting used to something new. I ran my tongue along his neck and bit him slowly, and he answered by pressing me harder against his hip. We took off our T-shirts, and he stared at my chest as if he wanted to memorize it. Then I unbuttoned his pants and pulled down the fly, and when I pulled his cock out over the elastic of his briefs I saw it up close for the first time: thick, brown, with a full head and a fat drop of precum shining at the tip.

I took it in my hand. It fit just right in my fist and was hot, hotter than I expected, throbbing against my palm. I moved my hand up and down slowly, with the awkwardness of doing from the outside, for the first time, a gesture I’d done all my life on myself. He closed his eyes and let out a low moan.

“Fuck,” he said. “Just like that.”

I stripped the rest of the way too. Our erections brushed at the same time, skin to skin, and both of us burst out in a nervous laugh that turned into another kiss, this one without any doubt. I took both our cocks in my hand and pressed them together, stroking them at once, feeling them slide against each other coated in both our precum.

Between kisses we whispered things to each other.

“This is weird,” he said.

“Yeah,” I answered. “But it feels so good too.”

“I’d never gotten this far.”

“Me neither. I want to suck you off.”

He was silent for a second, swallowed, and nodded.

“I want to suck you too.”

***

We ended up in sixty-nine almost without deciding it, as if the body knew where to go before the mind did. He lay on his back and I climbed over him facing the other way, knees on either side of his head and my mouth at the level of his cock. I had never had another man’s erection that close before. I took it in my hand, slowly, and brought it toward my face.

I didn’t know what I was about to do. I did it anyway.

The smell was masculine and direct, no frills: something I took a second to get used to and then stopped caring about. I ran my tongue along the full length, from the balls to the head, and felt his whole body shiver beneath mine. I licked the tip, tasting the salty precum that kept spilling out, and then took the whole head into my mouth. I closed my lips around it and started sucking him slowly, afraid of biting him, helping myself with my hand at the base.

“Oh, man,” he groaned. “Oh, fuck.”

I got bolder. I went lower, trying to take his cock as deep as I could with no experience whatsoever. He was smaller than I was, manageable, but still more than my inexperienced mouth knew how to handle. When it hit my throat I arched and had to pull back for a moment, coughing, strings of saliva hanging from my lips. I took it back in, this time with more rhythm, up and down, learning on the fly to breathe through my nose and keep my teeth covered with my lips. I ran my tongue over the frenulum as I came back up, the way I liked it done to me, and he slammed his hips into my face.

It took me a moment to realize he was sucking me off too. I felt the first time his hot, wet mouth swallowing my whole cock from below, and I almost choked on his. He sucked me with devoted clumsiness, no technique but plenty of hunger, pressing his lips and using his hand. He licked my balls one by one, took them into his mouth, and then came back to the tip and started sucking hard, as if he wanted to milk me on the first go.

For a good while, the room held only the sounds of ragged breathing, the wet noise of suction, the slap of saliva, and the sea outside the window. When I went down, he came up. When he loosened, I tightened. We coordinated without meaning to, breathing at the same time, our hips pushing unconsciously against each other’s mouth.

It wasn’t perfect. Neither of us had experience. But it didn’t need to be perfect.

We stayed like that for quite a while, stopping every so often to catch our breath or say “keep going,” or “slower,” or “don’t make me cum yet.” At one point I ran my tongue underneath, along the line of his perineum, and he jerked and moaned so loudly I reflexively covered his mouth with my hand. He sucked me. I slid my fingers in and he sucked them too, eyes closed, and I lowered my mouth again onto his cock with the crystal-clear feeling that if I kept going two more minutes he’d come in my throat.

When we finally stopped, both of us had damp foreheads, swollen mouths, and numb legs from the position. I rolled over and lay beside him for a moment, my cock pointing at the ceiling, dripping saliva and precum.

“I never thought I’d get this far,” he said, staring at the ceiling.

“Me neither,” I said. “And I want more.”

***

We wanted to go further. I wanted to know what everything felt like, without arbitrary limits, and he did too. I turned him over and spread his legs. I spat on my fingers and ran my fingertip over his ass, circling the hole before even trying to push in the tip. He let out a long gasp when the first finger went in to the knuckle and he grabbed the sheets.

“Wait, wait,” he said. “Slowly, man.”

“I am going slowly. Breathe.”

I added more saliva, moved the finger patiently, and when I felt him loosen more I tried with two. He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed through his mouth, half complaining, half enjoying it. When I pulled my fingers out and pressed the tip of my cock against his ass, pushing very slowly, his whole body tensed. I tried once, twice, three times. Every time I got close enough, he tightened his muscles and the pain was too much. After three attempts we left it there. It wasn’t a defeat. It was simply the limit of that night for him.

“I can’t, brother,” he said, still panting. “Not like this, the first time.”

“Easy.”

I lay on my back, my erection still there, so hard it hurt. Diego was recovering beside me, his hand wrapped around the cock that still pointed at the ceiling, jerking himself off slowly while he looked at me. We looked at each other and he tipped his head upward, a wordless question.

“You can?” he said. “You let me?”

“Let me try.”

I climbed on top of him.

I used what I had: saliva, a lot of patience, and the awareness that I could stop whenever I wanted. I spit on his cock and coated it well with my hand until it was shining. Then I set it against my ass, gripped it firmly at the base, and lowered myself little by little. The head pushed against the ring, resisting, and for a second I thought the same thing would happen to me as had happened to him. I took a deep breath, relaxed, pushed back. And suddenly the head slid inside with a sharp pull that made me clench my teeth.

“Fuck,” I muttered.

“You okay?” His hands were on my thighs, still as stone.

“Yeah. Don’t move.”

I sat down on him slowly, controlling the pace, swallowing his cock millimeter by millimeter. When he felt I was guiding it, he stopped pushing and stayed still, hands on my thighs, letting me be the one to manage the pain. The moment it went all the way in, when I felt his balls against my ass, was a mix of burning and something completely unlike any sensation I’d had before. Not comparable. Neither better nor worse. Just another kind of pleasure, from another angle, at another temperature, something pushing from inside against a place I hadn’t known was there.

I stayed still for a moment, breathing. Then I started moving.

At first I only went up and down a few centimeters, getting used to it, feeling his cock sliding inside me. I braced my hands on his chest and found a rhythm that worked. His fingers dug into my hips. When he hit that spot inside me, a moan escaped me that I didn’t recognize as my own.

“There,” I said. “There, don’t move, let me do it.”

I started riding him for real. I rose and fell on his cock with more rhythm, clenching around him inside every time I came down, feeling him fill me completely. Neither of us was speaking now, only rapid breathing, skin slapping skin, and the fan turning overhead. I built the intensity little by little until my thighs were slamming against him with every drop and we were both groaning without holding back. My cock bounced against my stomach, hard and dripping, and he grabbed it with one hand and started pumping it in time with my thrusts.

“Oh, man, like that, keep going like that,” he panted. “You’re so tight, motherfucker.”

“Shut up and push,” I answered, biting my lip.

He started thrusting up from below against each of my drops, and every time his hips rose to meet my weight I felt his cock strike deep inside and that spot light up with an electric shock. I was getting dizzy with pleasure. No one had ever filled me like this, no one had ever driven into me with that intensity, and I no longer cared about anything, not labels, not doubt, not shame.

My mind was asking what I was doing there. My body answered for me.

I stopped before going all the way because I needed a breather, not from him but from the intensity of what was happening. I pulled out slowly, feeling the strange emptiness as the cock slid free, and lay beside him, breathless.

***

He was close. You could tell from his breathing, from the way he grabbed his cock in his hand and shook it fast, slick with saliva and me. I moved his hand aside and wrapped my own around his erection. I squeezed the base firmly and sped up, twisting my wrist when I reached the head, looking at his face.

“Come,” I said softly. “Come on me.”

That was enough. His breathing changed completely, words got stuck in his throat, and when he came, he did it with a contained groan, eyes closed and back slightly arched. The cum shot out with a force I hadn’t expected, in thick white spurts, part on his stomach, part on my hand, and the first jet hit my face and splashed my cheek and the corner of my mouth.

I stayed still for a second, feeling the warmth on my cheek, my hand still squeezing his cock as it kept throbbing between my fingers, drawing out the last drops. And then, without thinking too much about it, I brought my mouth to the tip. I took the whole head between my lips and sucked, cleaning out what was left inside him, swallowing what I could draw out. Then I ran my finger over his stomach, gathered up a little more, and put it in my mouth.

It was salty and thick and had a bitter edge to it, and in that moment it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. He was looking up at me with a stunned expression, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“Come here,” he said, his voice broken.

He sat up and pushed me back onto the mattress. He settled between my legs, grabbed my cock with both hands, and took it into his mouth as far as he could. He sucked me with a devotion he hadn’t had before, now without nerves, after the line of modesty had already been crossed. He licked my balls, took my cock into his throat again, and with his other hand he squeezed my ass, still open and sensitive, slipping two fingers in to the knuckle and searching inside for the same spot he had just hit me in.

I held out for about thirty seconds. When his fingers touched me inside and his mouth tightened on the outside at the same time, it was over. I yanked his hair to warn him, but he didn’t move away. I came in his mouth with his hand still on me and his tongue working the tip, and it was one of the cleanest and longest orgasms I remember: no tension, no calculation, just the body releasing in spurts what it had been holding back for years. He swallowed what he could, choked on the rest, and the remainder leaked from the corner of his mouth and fell onto his chest.

He got up, looked at me, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and smiled with a mix of embarrassment and euphoria.

We lay there without talking for a long while. The ceiling, the fan noise, the heat, the smell of semen and sweat and sea salt soaked into the sheets.

“Guilt,” he said at last.

“Yeah,” I said. “But not that much.”

He laughed. So did I.

***

I went to take a shower. He cleaned himself at the sink and when I came out he was already dressed, looking at his phone. We opened the last beer and shared it sitting on the terrace, with much less to say than before everything happened, but without any real awkwardness. The tension had gone and what remained was something like calm, that silence that comes after doing something you don’t know whether you should have done but know you wouldn’t erase.

He told me he had to go back. His girlfriend got up early and if he arrived very late there would be questions.

We exchanged numbers before he left. At the door, we gave each other a hug that lasted longer than usual, one of those hugs that both people know means something, though neither names it. I closed the door and stood there listening to his footsteps recede down the hallway until there was nothing left to hear but the sea.

I never saw him again. We never wrote to each other, though the number is still in my phone. I don’t know whether what happened that night changes anything about who I am. I don’t think it changes the label, but it does change something harder to define. That curiosity I had kept in a locked drawer for years is no longer there.

The drawer has been open for two years.