That Mature Man on the Bus Knew Exactly What to Do

That day I had worked as an event hostess at a corporate event, one of those conferences where an agency hires you to greet guests, hand out badges, and smile for hours. I was wearing a flared navy skirt, short but elegant, a white sleeveless blouse, and heels that were already punishing my feet by mid-afternoon. I had been on my feet for almost three hours and all I wanted was to get home, take off my shoes, and fall into bed.

By then I was twenty-seven and had already learned a couple of things about myself. The main one: I didn’t need a man to be handsome to want him. All it took was a certain confidence, a certain way of looking, a certain smell. What happened that night had more to do with that than with any plan.

I left the venue after eight-thirty and walked to the terminal. The last bus on the route to the port was packed. Not a single seat was free and, to make matters worse, I had to ride standing up, holding onto the aisle rail, with my bag across my body and my feet burning. I figured it would be about forty minutes to my stop, maybe an hour with the traffic leaving the city.

Once we were on the highway, the driver switched off the interior lights and left only the dim blue ceiling lamps on. The half-dark changed the whole atmosphere. People lowered their voices, some closed their eyes, and the engine hummed low beneath the floor. That was when I felt someone settle in behind me.

It was a man. From the corner of my eye and from his height I figured he was in his fifties, give or take, rather short, stocky. He wasn’t tall, so he fit right against my back, and with every bump, every curve, the swaying pushed us into each other. At first I thought it was just travel, that awkward closeness that happens when you’re packed in among strangers.

But it wasn’t chance.

I felt, against the small of my back, something becoming firm. He didn’t move away; on the contrary, he used every motion of the bus to press a little more against me. I could have stepped away, shot him a warning look, said something. I didn’t. The road was dark, the air smelled of diesel and cheap perfume, and I, I admit it, decided to stay exactly where I was.

Anyway, he gets off at the next stop and I never see him again.

Only he didn’t get off at the next stop. Or the one after that.

A couple of rows ahead, a young couple was kissing without hiding it, shielded by the darkness. I saw the boy slip his hand under her jacket, saw her throw her head back. No one said a thing. On that night bus, everyone pretended to sleep or stared out the window into the black nothing of the fields.

The man behind me grew bolder with that same sense of immunity. With his right hand he took my hip, slowly, as if testing whether I would object. I didn’t. He breathed against the back of my neck, a warm breath that raised goosebumps all along my neck and arms. I closed my eyes. My breathing was no longer that of someone tired and coming home from work.

—Long trip? —he murmured, so softly I could barely hear him over the engine.

—All the way to the end —I answered, without turning.

—Me too.

That single word, spoken against my ear, lit me up. His hand moved from my hip to my thigh and slid up under the hem of my skirt a couple of inches, just enough to make me understand what he wanted without overdoing it, without risking a scandal. I spread my feet a little more, as if to keep my balance on the curve, though we both knew it wasn’t about balance.

I never cared that he was a complete stranger, that he smelled like drugstore cologne and was thirty years older than me, maybe more. Quite the opposite. There was something about his measured boldness, that confidence of a man who no longer has anything to prove to anyone, that was driving me crazy there on my feet, in the middle of nowhere, gripping a cold metal pole.

The bus started emptying out as we entered the port area. Ten, twelve people got off over a couple of stops, and all at once there were only a handful of passengers left scattered among the seats. I found two empty seats together and finally let myself drop into one. He sat down beside me without asking, as if we’d been making that trip together for years.

Up close he was more appealing than I’d expected. Plump, yes, but neat, in a good-quality shirt and a discreet watch. There was nothing vulgar about him. He had the look of a man who had lived, who had made mistakes and learned from them, and who now knew exactly what he liked.

—Before the last stop there’s a crossroads —he said quietly, looking straight ahead—. If you get off there with me, I’ll buy you a drink. Your call.

I thought about it for exactly three seconds.

—I’ll get off.

***

We got off on a poorly lit avenue, the sea just a few blocks away in the dark and the air thick with humidity. We crossed the street almost without talking. He walked half a step ahead, not taking my hand, and I liked that distance: there was no fake tenderness, no lies, just two adults who knew what they were there for.

He went into a no-tell motel, one of those places with half-burned neon lights and a desk behind glass. He asked for a room and two brandies. He paid. He didn’t ask me anything, we didn’t negotiate anything, we just went up a narrow staircase that smelled of disinfectant and other people’s nights.

The room was simple: a large bed, a nightstand, a lamp with a warm glow that he left on after switching off the main light. It was muggy. From the window came the distant rumble of a car.

—Take your clothes off —he said, and sat on the edge of the bed to watch me.

It wasn’t a harsh command. It was an invitation shaped like an order, and hearing it turned me on. I slipped out of my heels first with a sigh of relief. Then the blouse, the skirt, everything, until I stood in front of him with the warm light sliding over my skin. He watched me without hurrying, with a half smile, taking me in slowly with his eyes as if he wanted to memorize me.

I went over and found his belt. I pulled down his pants and he finished taking them off himself, along with his shirt, until he was naked on the edge of the bed. He was thick, thicker than long, still soft. It didn’t intimidate me; it made me curious.

—Come here —he said, taking my hair softly but firmly.

I knelt between his legs and took him into my mouth. He reacted almost immediately, hardening while he guided my head with his hand, setting the pace, taking me as far as I could go and then a little beyond. I heard him suck in air through his teeth again and again, and that honest reaction, so unfeigned, soaked me through. There was nothing theatrical about him. Every contained groan was real.

—Wait —he gasped after a while, lifting my face—. Not like that or I’ll never finish.

He put on a condom with the calm of someone who has done it a thousand times. He laid me back on the bed and entered me slowly, measuring me, as if he wanted to see how far he could go before really pushing. His thickness filled me in a way that made me arch my back and clutch the sheets. He started off slow, with a deep rocking, and then gradually increased the pace until everything else slipped away.

When I felt he was getting close too soon, I stopped him with a hand on his chest and pushed him onto his back.

—My turn now —I said, and sat on top of him.

From there, I was the one in charge. I moved slowly at first, in circles, feeling him slide in and out at my own whim, and then faster, deeper, finding just the angle that made sparks flash before my eyes. He looked up at me from below, mouth parted, hands digging into my hips, mumbling nonsense, calling me “my love” between gasps as if I really were.

I felt him tense all over beneath me. He threw his head back, rolled his eyes white, and jolted with a series of long moans so intense I was afraid for a second something might happen to him. A couple of thrusts later I let go too, a shiver running from my center to the tips of my fingers, and collapsed against his heaving chest.

We stayed like that for a while, catching our breath, his heart thudding against my cheek like a drum. Then he simply fell asleep, worn out. I got up carefully, stepped into the shower, and let the warm water bring me back to the world.

***

When I came out, I dressed in silence so as not to wake him. As I picked up my bag from the chair, I glanced toward the bed and saw that he had left a folded bill on the nightstand. No one had asked for it, and we hadn’t talked about money at any point.

I took it. Not because I needed it —I didn’t— but because I understood what it meant. It was the gesture of a man who knew exactly what he had just experienced, who perhaps hadn’t had a night like that in a long time, and who couldn’t think of any other way to say thank you. I kept it like someone keeping a memory, not a payment.

I went down the narrow staircase, stepped out into the damp early-morning air, and walked until I found a taxi. I never learned his name. I never saw him again, and I never got on that bus at the same hour with the secret hope of running into him again.

But sometimes, when I travel at night and the engine hums low and the lights go out, I still feel a warmth climbing up my back, and I remember that mature man who, without saying hardly a word, knew exactly what to do with me.