The Venezuelan Whistle Watcher Who Made Me His That Dawn

Cali has a reputation for being the hottest city in Colombia, and I don’t mean the weather. There’s something in the air of its nights, in the music that slips through the windows, and in the way people look at each other on the street that makes you want to go looking for trouble. That night, I was looking for it.

That afternoon I slept until sunset. I’d had an intense week and took advantage of the silence in the house: my dad and my brother Tomás were resting too, happy that my mom was out of town. When she’s around, she doesn’t let anyone sleep, with her noise and her orders to clean up. But that’s just how she is, and we love her anyway.

We ordered something for dinner and, since the following Monday was a holiday, Tomás and I decided to go out partying. We chose a popular, traditional neighborhood, one of those with a bad reputation that’s been around forever, but which in recent years became famous for two things: an indoor soccer tournament that draws half the city, and the fact that a well-known reggaeton singer has his base there.

The neighborhood is in the flat part of the city, not up in the hills. It’s also known that a lot of drugs move there. Even so, it’s a busy sector, full of businesses, where young people from all over come to drink and dance. On every corner it’s common to see a guy with a whistle in his hand. They call them whistle watchers: their job is to warn the pushers with a whistle when the police show up.

Tomás and I arrived with two friends who actually live in the neighborhood. We stopped at a corner where there’s a small but always-packed stand that sells shaved ice drinks. And there, leaning against the wall, was one of those whistle watchers. When I looked at him properly, he took my breath away.

—Look at that gorgeous whistle watcher —Tomás whispered in my ear.

—He’s fucking hot —I replied—. Want to steal him?

—Of course. Let’s see how we do it.

I went over with some random excuse and started talking to him. He told me his name was Maikel, that he was Venezuelan, twenty-two years old, and that he worked as a whistle watcher because he hadn’t found anything else. His shift ended at seven in the morning. He lived alone in a rented room, paid rent day by day, and had to hustle for even food.

He told me that by then he was already hungry, but he didn’t have any money left. Without thinking twice, I bought him something to eat and offered it to him. He accepted with a mix of pride and gratitude that only pulled me in harder.

The night went on and with it came trust. I bought him a shaved ice drink, he kept finding me to talk every so often, and between one line and the next he held my gaze a second too long. This is going to happen, I thought.

One of my friends introduced us to two girls from the neighborhood. With one of them, Dayana, I struck up a good conversation. She was wearing a tiny black dress that showed off her legs and cleavage, and she was the kind who flirts without the slightest shame. She was practically offering herself to me. But I was still focused on the whistle watcher.

As always happens among drunk friends, the guys started egging me on: to take advantage, to take her with me, asking if I was a faggot. To avoid explanations, I ended up saying yes. The problem was where. One of the people who lives in the neighborhood lent us the stairs in his house, warning us not to make noise so as not to wake the family.

We went on the motorbikes. He opened the door for us, repeating that everything had to be done in silence. As soon as we went in, Dayana threw herself at me, kissed me, and grabbed me over my pants. I hadn’t been with a woman in a while, but I still got hard. She pulled down my jeans, took out my cock, and put it in her mouth.

She was good at it, I won’t complain, though my head was somewhere else. I was in a hurry to finish. She stood up, slid her underwear aside, lifted one leg, I held it for her, and I shoved into her. I fucked her standing up for a while, against the wall, until I told her we should leave before we got caught. The truth was something else: I didn’t want to keep going.

She asked me to at least finish with my mouth, that she wanted me to come like that. I agreed, and she sucked me off until the end. We went back out to the corner. I apologized, told her it had been incredible, and promised her a payback I never intended to fulfill.

***

My friends told me Tomás had gone off with someone too. I checked my phone: he’d texted me that he’d met a guy and gone with him, that I should relax and he’d tell me later. Each of us doing our own thing.

After four in the morning they closed the place. Before continuing the party at another house, I spoke quietly with Maikel. I told him to meet me when his shift ended. He looked at me and nodded: at seven, on the same corner.

The other house was full of people: beautiful girls and well-dressed guys you wanted to eat alive. Electronic music and guaracha were blasting. The only problem was the drug use everywhere, which isn’t my thing; my friends know it and always keep me out of that stuff.

At seven I told them I was leaving for home. They insisted I stay, but in the end they gave in. We ordered a car for my apartment, and a little later I slipped away without them noticing. I doubted Maikel would still be there. I was wrong: he was sitting on the sidewalk, waiting for me. I called him over, he got in, and we talked the whole way.

***

At the apartment there was no one. My dad had gone to the farm and Tomás still hadn’t come back. I offered him leftover pizza from the day before, which he devoured with ferocious hunger, and a soda. Meanwhile I went to my room, changed, and stayed in my shorts. I came back and sat beside him.

—So how did it go? —I asked him.

—Normal. Standing up all night gets really tiring.

—Then you’re wrecked. If you want, take a hot shower.

—Damn, yes. That would be amazing.

He undressed and was left in worn-out boxer briefs with a blown-out waistband. He had a slim body, light skin with sun spots, a few tattoos done in a hurry, and a truly beautiful face. It was obvious he hadn’t cut his hair in a while. I won’t deny it: at times I regretted it and even felt a little afraid, without really knowing why.

He went into the bathroom and took a while to turn on the shower. I assumed, and I wasn’t wrong, that he had taken something before bathing. I took the chance to lock the apartment door and hide the key. I heard him singing, celebrating the hot water, and thanking me for the chance. I’d deliberately not left him a towel, so when he finished he let me know.

I told him to open the door so I could hand it to him. He opened it just a crack and hid behind it, refusing to show himself. I was disappointed. When he came out I noticed he’d left the bathroom soaked; if my mom had seen it, she would’ve given the both of us one hell of a scolding.

I took him to my room and he asked me for a glass of rum with ice. I poured it for him. I got a clean pair of shorts and gave them to him; he thanked me a lot. We sat on the bed and started talking. In that conversation I discovered he was a good guy, decent, carrying a brutal childhood on his back.

That, in a way, disarmed me. I no longer wanted to take advantage of his situation and, though I was burning with desire, I started thinking about stopping everything. Until he spoke.

—So why did you invite me? What did we come here for? —he asked, looking straight at me.

—I liked you. You seemed like a good person.

—So you invite everyone you like to your place?

—It’s not like that, but…

—No buts. Speak plainly, we’re both adults.

—I’m embarrassed, man.

—You came on so strong and now you’re backing off —he said, laughing.

—I don’t want you to feel like I’m taking advantage of you.

—No one’s taking advantage of anyone —he cut in—. Since you came up to me on the corner, I understood what was going on, and if I agreed to come it’s because I want this too. I’m not gay, but I’m not closed off to trying. And I’ve gone a long time without being with anyone. I liked how those jeans fit you, how your ass showed in them. And now, in those shorts, you look even better.

That gave me the green light and I didn’t need to be asked twice.

I reached out and grabbed his cock over the shorts. He took it out himself: long, thin, straight, very white. I leaned in and took it into my mouth. Maikel let out a groan, squirmed, grabbed my head with both hands, and started setting the pace.

He stood up on the bed and from there used my mouth however he wanted. He made me go down to his balls, lick them slowly, come back up, and swallow his cock whole. I let him do it, and the more he did, the clearer it became who was in charge there.

He dragged me to the edge of the mattress, on my back, with my head hanging off. That was how he shoved it down my throat. I felt like I was choking, I was gagging, but he pressed his hand to my stomach and didn’t let up. He rubbed his balls over my face so I’d play with my tongue. Without warning, he drove all the way back in and came, filling my mouth in one shot. I felt frustrated: I thought that was it, that I’d lost the night over so little.

How wrong I was.

He turned me around and left me once again at the edge of the bed, my legs on the floor and my cock resting against the mattress. He took a sip of rum, put an ice cube in his mouth, and went down to find my ass with his frozen tongue. That new sensation, the cold right there, made me shiver. He spit into his hand, lubed me up well, and got himself ready too, not losing his erection for a second.

He grabbed his used boxer briefs and put them over my face, ordering me to smell them. The scent was strong, of sweat and man. I never thought something like that could turn me on so much.

—Now I’m really going to make you my bitch —he said.

—Do it —I told him.

—Open wide and relax.

He pressed the head against my hole, put his hands on my back, and with one shove drove it all the way in. The pain was so brutal I screamed and cursed him out. He stayed still, letting me breathe. Then another shove, another insult. And another, until, without realizing it, I was the one asking him to fuck me harder.

—Is this what you wanted? —he mocked me—. Now you take it.

And he kept going. He brought my knees up onto the bed without pulling out, bit my neck, changed the angle. Suddenly he pushed forward and I felt something different, as if he’d opened up another cavity deeper inside, a place I didn’t even know I had. He kept me there, moving slowly side to side, taking his time.

He sped up and slowed down. He breathed hard against my nape. He rolled us onto our side, lifted my leg and kept going, still without rushing, changing the rhythm, talking into my ear. One more turn and he ended up on his back with me on top, both of us looking at the ceiling; he had me plant my feet on his thighs and lift my hips, and from below he started hammering into me again.

Every change of position revealed someone experienced, someone who knew exactly what he was doing. When he felt he was about to come, he stopped, went slow, gave me more rum, and started over. He was in no hurry. He wanted to enjoy every minute, and it drove me crazy that control was entirely his: I didn’t finish when I wanted to, but when he decided.

Tired, I asked him to finish it. But he was in charge. After more than an hour, with my body wrecked, he warned me he was about to come. He sped up, grabbed my neck hard, and I felt him empty himself inside me. I was left exhausted, sore, and at the same time more satisfied than ever.

We fell asleep, wrapped around each other, not even hearing the door. We didn’t hear the footsteps either. I only woke up when Tomás, my brother, was already standing in the doorway, looking at us naked on the bed.