The Theater, Him, and My First Time

I found him on a dating app one random Tuesday afternoon. His photo showed a man from behind, facing the sea, and something about that detail felt different from the rest of the profiles. I liked him without thinking too much about it. When he wrote to me, his first message was a question about a book I had on my profile, not a simple “hi” or “hey,” but something specific, something that showed he’d actually read what I’d put. That already told me quite a bit about what he was like.

His name was Damián. Forty-two years old, almost twice my age, tall, with those shoulders you notice even in a front-facing photo. He had a thick, well-groomed beard, dark hair with a few gray strands that gave him the air of a man who’d lived a little. He lived in Monterrey, more than twelve hours away by bus from my city. That should have been a stop sign. It wasn’t.

We talked for months. First on the app, then on WhatsApp. The conversations would start with series, work, books, and always end up somewhere else. There was something very easy about talking to him, the way he listened even through the screen, which made you open up without even realizing you were doing it. Some days we wrote until two in the morning. Then there was a silence of almost three months when neither of us made a peep, and when he wrote again it was with a “still there?” that hit me straight in the chest.

I found out Damián was coming to my city for work matters, but the timing didn’t work out and we couldn’t meet up. I had tickets to see a play the following month, a production I’d been looking forward to for a while, and half-jokingly I asked him if he liked theater. He said he loved it, that he’d studied it for a while when he was young. I told him about the play and the dates. He said that by then he’d have sorted out his business and we could meet after the performance. We left it at that, without too much ceremony, as if it were just any old plan between two people who’d known each other forever.

The day of the trip I left early. It was five hours by train and I got there at midday. I checked into a small guesthouse near the historic center, dropped off my backpack, showered, and went out for a walk. I had that nervous energy that isn’t exactly anxiety but looks a lot like it: a tight stomach, exaggerated attention to detail, the lingering feeling that something was going to happen. Or that it might not happen. Both scenarios made me equally nervous.

A few hours later, at the theater entrance, two students were handing out invitations for the opening performance, a different play from the one I’d bought tickets for. They offered me one. I took it and called him without thinking twice. Damián arrived twenty minutes later.

***

I was coming down the main staircase of the building when I saw him in person for the first time. Just like in the photos but more real, more solid. The neatly trimmed beard, a navy shirt rolled up to the elbows, clean dark shoes. He was walking slowly, looking at the theater façade as if he were measuring it from the inside. I had to take a breath before raising my hand so he’d spot me among the people going in.

He saw me. He smiled.

Oh my God, I thought.

The greeting was one of those that’s neither a handshake nor a hug, but something in between that neither person quite knows how to define and both understand the same way. We went into the first performance. I wasn’t fully focused on the stage. I was very aware of the space between his arm and mine, of how much room he took up in the seat beside me, of when he breathed.

After the intermission, we stayed for the second play. This time we sat closer together. He pointed out details of the staging in a low voice, comments from someone who knows what he’s looking at. At one point he leaned on the armrest and his hand brushed mine. Neither of us moved it away.

We came out after eleven. We walked to a bar with tables on the sidewalk and ordered something to share and two cold beers. We talked for almost an hour about things that moved from the trivial to the personal without any clear boundary between the two. It was just as easy to be with him in person as it had been by text, but with something extra layered over it, a physical presence that made every silence carry a different weight.

By the time we finished eating it was almost midnight. We went walking through the center with no particular destination. Damián knew the city well and kept telling me stories about every building, every street, in that way of his that made anything sound interesting. I didn’t have confirmed accommodation for that night, something that had slipped my mind amid the excitement of the trip and the nerves of meeting him. I mentioned it without making much of it, almost like it was a minor detail.

He stayed quiet for a moment.

“If you want, you can stay at my apartment,” he said. “I’ve got plenty of room.”

He said it calmly, with no emphasis, like it was the most logical thing in the world. Inside, I was nowhere near that calm. I accepted with the same fake composure and we kept walking as if nothing had changed, even though we both knew something had.

The apartment was on the eighth floor, with a big window in the living room overlooking the city’s lit-up rooftops. It was a neat space, with few but good pieces of furniture, books on almost every surface, and a small kitchen that smelled like coffee. He offered me clothes to get comfortable in and pointed to the bathroom. While I was changing, I heard the shower running on the other side of the wall and had to make a conscious effort to breathe normally. I was thinking about him naked on the other side of the wall, water running down his chest, his stomach, his cock, and I had to clench my teeth not to shove my hand down my pants right there.

When he came out of the bathroom he stepped into the room with the towel in his hand, his hair damp and mussed. He changed in front of me without any ceremony, as if living together were something old between us. I saw his broad back, his firm ass, and in profile, for a second, his cock hanging thick between his legs before he put on his sleep pants. He put on a T-shirt, ran his fingers through his hair to dry it a little, and got into bed without saying a word.

I was already there, leaning against the headboard, staring at the ceiling with a hard cock under the borrowed pants.

He turned off the overhead light but left the bedside lamp on. We talked in low voices for a while, that kind of midnight conversation that always ends up going places daytime conversation doesn’t. At some point the topic stopped mattering.

His hand came to my arm softly, his fingers running slowly over my forearm, without haste, as if he were exploring something new. It wasn’t an accidental gesture. I turned toward him. We looked at each other for a few seconds in the dim light. And we kissed.

I don’t know how long that first kiss lasted. Long enough for the rest of the world to disappear. His tongue came into my mouth hot and hungry, and mine answered without hesitation, seeking him out, sucking on it slowly. His hands held my face with a firmness I hadn’t expected, and mine found his shirt without me giving them any instructions. I was trembling a little and he noticed.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his mouth still near mine.

“Yeah,” I answered. “It’s just that I really like what’s happening.”

“It’s going to get better,” he said softly, and bit my lower lip before going back to devour my mouth.

He yanked my T-shirt off over my head and just looked at me for a few seconds, my chest rising and falling fast. He ran his open palm over my sternum, down my stomach, and without taking his eyes off mine, he slipped his hand into my pants. He closed his fingers around my hard cock and squeezed slowly, taking my measure, with a wicked smile on his mouth.

“You’re rock hard,” he murmured. “You’ve been like this all night, haven’t you?”

“Since I saw you come down the staircase,” I confessed, and my voice came out broken.

He gave a low laugh and yanked my pants down. He bent over me and took my cock in his mouth without warning. His hot tongue wrapped around all of it, his beard scraped my groin, and I felt him swallow me down to the base, until the tip hit the back of his throat. A moan escaped me that I couldn’t control. Damián sucked with obscene calm, moving his mouth up and down my cock with a steady rhythm, that rhythm of his like a man who knows he has all night. He licked my balls, took them into his mouth one by one, and came back to the tip to suck the pre-cum that kept leaking out of me. I grabbed his head with both hands and he let me, looking up at me from below with dark eyes while he devoured me whole.

“Stop,” I gasped, “stop or I’m going to come right now.”

He pulled back, his mouth shining and a slow smile on his face. He sat on the edge of the bed, took off his T-shirt and pants, and at last I saw him in full: the broad chest covered in dark hair, the firm stomach, the thick legs, and between them a hard cock, big, curved upward, the tip already wet. I stared at it without even trying to hide it. He noticed.

“Come here,” he said, and took it by the base. “Suck me.”

I knelt on the bed between his legs and took it into my mouth. It was hard at first; he was thick and the taste was strong, masculine, the smell of a freshly showered man that turned my head upside down. I grabbed his thighs with both hands and started sucking him slowly, licking the whole length, kissing the tip, swallowing him as deep as I could. He held my nape with one hand, not forcing me, setting the rhythm, murmuring things that made me clench my thighs.

“That’s it, very good, with your whole tongue… look at me while you suck me off, I want to see your eyes.”

I looked up without taking him out of my mouth. He was staring at me with clenched teeth, breathing through his nose, and he stroked my cheek with his thumb.

“You suck cock so fucking well,” he said, and that word said in that voice made me clench my ass and moan with his dick inside my mouth.

He pulled me away by the hair, gently, and laid me on my back. He got on top of me, between my legs, with that same slow cadence of his. He sucked my nipples one by one, biting them until he made my back arch, moved down over my stomach, opened my legs wide and lifted my knees to my chest. Without saying anything he ran his tongue over my hole. The first lick made me let out a shout I hadn’t seen coming. The second made me clutch the pillow with both hands. Damián ate my ass with hunger, his beard scraping my cheeks, his tongue going in and out of me, while with one hand he gave me a slow stroke that had me on the verge of crying from pleasure.

“I’m going to fuck you,” he said, barely lifting himself. “Okay?”

“Yes,” I panted. “Yes, fuck me already.”

He reached for a bottle of lube and a condom from the bedside table. He put the condom on slowly, without rushing, and squeezed lube onto his cock and my fingers. He put one finger in first, sucking my cock at the same time to relax me, and when that went in easily he slid in another, moving them inside me with a calm that was killing me. When he put in the third I was writhing on the bed.

“Now, now, put it in,” I begged.

He pulled his fingers out and positioned himself between my legs. He hooked one of my legs over his shoulder, grabbed his cock by the base and set the tip at my ass. He pushed slowly. I felt the fat head of his dick opening me and held my breath. Damián stared at me, reading my face, and when he noticed me loosening up he pushed deeper, a centimeter more, and another, and another, until I felt his balls slap against my ass. I ran out of air.

“All the way in,” he whispered. “Take it.”

He started moving. At first with slow, long thrusts, almost pulling all the way out before plunging back in to the hilt. The bed creaked beneath us. I dug my fingers into his arms, moaning every time he drove his cock all the way in, and he answered by clenching his jaw and fucking me harder. He changed positions without pulling out: he put me on my side, lifted one leg, and from there he thrust into me at a different angle that made me see stars. Then he turned me face down, lifted my hips and took me from behind, one hand on my neck pressing me against the mattress and the other on my waist, fucking me hard, with those dry slaps of his pelvis against my ass echoing through the whole room.

“What an ass you’ve got, fuck,” he growled. “You’re so fucking tight for me, you bastard…”

“Harder,” I begged, my mouth against the pillow. “Harder, don’t stop.”

He yanked my hair to raise my torso and fucked me on my knees, arching me against his chest, his beard scraping my shoulder, one of his hands wrapped around my cock jerking me off at the same rhythm he was pounding me. I was right on the edge and he knew it.

He laid me back down on my back and sank into my ass again, looking me in the eyes. I was gripping his arms with both hands. He moved with a steady cadence, as if he had all the time in the world, and that drove me farther to the edge than any urgency could. I moaned without thinking, and he answered by leaning in to say in my ear:

“Come for me. Don’t touch yourself. With my cock inside you. I want to watch.”

He thrust deeper, slower, hitting my prostate with every push, and I felt everything building up in my gut. I came out crying out, with spurts of cum that splattered over my chest and stomach, my ass clenching around his cock, and he kept fucking me while I came, stretching my orgasm until I lost my mind. When he finally stopped, the tip of his dick was buried deep inside me and he bit my neck, groaning low, and I felt him cum inside the condom with short, desperate thrusts.

He collapsed on top of me without pulling out, his breathing hitting my neck. He stayed there for a long while, his cock throbbing inside my ass, until he withdrew slowly and took off the condom. He brushed his lips over my sweaty shoulder and smiled.

There was a moment when he took my foot in his hands and kissed it from the ankle upward. It surprised me so much that I laughed, and he laughed too without stopping what he was doing, and from laughing he went back to eating me out, licking the cum from my stomach, sucking my half-soft cock until it got hard again. He sucked me off until I came a second time in his mouth, swallowing everything without pulling away, looking up at me with shining eyes.

It was 4:15 in the morning when we finally lay still. Damián lay on his back, chest heaving, hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, eyes closed, his cock still shining with saliva and sweat on his stomach. I propped myself up on one elbow and looked at him for a while without him knowing.

“You’re going to kill me,” he said without opening his eyes.

“Worth it,” I said.

He laughed with his mouth closed.

He went to the kitchen to get water. He came back with two glasses and we drank them in silence, sitting on the edge of the bed. Then he lay down on his side and stretched out his arm. I settled against his chest and he wrapped that arm around me without saying anything. I slept better than I had in weeks, until the alarm got him up at 8:15.

He showered, got dressed, made me coffee in the kitchen. We had breakfast standing up, leaning against the counter, talking about normal things as if the night had been the most natural thing in the world. Then he helped me figure out the train stop and we said goodbye in the street with a hug that lasted longer than goodbye hugs usually do.

“Text me when you get there,” he said.

I did.

Days later, talking on WhatsApp with that same old ease but something different underneath it, he confessed that he had thought a lot about that night, and especially about the way I sucked his cock and how my ass clenched when I came. I had thought about it too, and I wrote him without filters, with my hand down my pants while I told him what I wanted him to do to me next time. We both agreed it had been way too good to be a one-time thing. I had a trip pending to his city, and with it, the conversation we’d had pending since the very first message he sent me about that book.