My Best Friend Asked Me to Do It That Night

The music rose up through the stairwell and slipped in beneath the bedroom door. It was one of those old songs adults put on when they’d had enough to stop being embarrassed about dancing. Downstairs, in the living room, our parents and their friends were celebrating the twenty years of marriage of Adrián’s parents. Upstairs, in his room, with the bolt turned, I had his cock in my hand and I was too scared to begin.

He was hard, hot against my palm. I ran the skin up and down slowly, and the head appeared and disappeared, appeared and disappeared, glossy under the desk lamp’s dim light. Adrián looked down at me with that impatience I’d known all my life, the same face he made when he dared me to jump from the highest branch or steal beers from his uncle’s garage.

I knew exactly what I was supposed to do. I had imagined it so many times it almost made me ashamed. But knowing it and doing it were two different things, and between the two there was a chasm I’d spent years not daring to cross.

“They could catch us,” I said, and my voice came out thinner than I wanted.

“They’re not going to catch us,” he replied, sliding his hand to the back of my neck. “Do it.”

So I did. I leaned in and took him into my mouth.

I was turned on, more than I would ever admit out loud. I’d wanted this for too long, spent too many sleepless nights inventing excuses not to think about it. I was also scared. I didn’t want anyone to come upstairs and open the door and find us like that, me on my knees, him with his head thrown back. Fear and desire mixed in my stomach, and I didn’t know which one weighed more.

I looked up without taking him out of my mouth. Adrián had his eyes closed and his lips parted, and he breathed through his nose in silence, as if any sound could give us away. I felt proud. I was doing it well. I closed my eyes too and focused on nothing else.

I ran my tongue over every fold of skin, the soft ridges, the thin line beneath the head that made him shudder every time I brushed it. I took him as deep as I could, until my throat warned me I’d reached the limit, and then I pulled off slowly and started again. I liked the taste. It was like mine, like the taste on my own fingers when I touched myself alone and then didn’t dare look at myself in the mirror.

I expected him to finish at any moment. I wanted it with an intensity that scared me. I wanted to taste him in the back of my mouth, wanted him to flood me completely. But Adrián didn’t want to come like that. Suddenly he gently pushed my head away, sat up, and pulled me to him to kiss me.

It was a strange kiss, with his own taste still between us, blending on our tongues. I was in a trance. Doing this to my best friend, to the person I’d grown up wall to wall with, was the most exciting thing I’d ever done in my life, and I knew it while it was happening, not after.

Our faces were so close I could feel his breath on mine, ragged, hot. Then his hands moved down and started unfastening my pants. I didn’t resist. I let him. The fabric fell to the floor and he turned me by the shoulder and pushed me to the edge of the bed until I was bent over, hands on the mattress, exposed.

“Wait,” I whispered, but it wasn’t a no. He understood it that way.

He spat into his hand and started spreading the saliva between my legs, with clumsy, hurried fingers. I stayed still, waiting, my heart hammering against my ribs. My cock was hard and I was ashamed that he could see it, that he would know how badly I wanted this too.

He got behind me and set the tip against my opening. He pushed. My body didn’t give. He pushed again, twice as hard, and still nothing. I was clenching without meaning to, my whole body tense, defending itself from something it also wanted.

“Relax,” he said in my ear, his voice hoarse.

I found his hand and squeezed it, trying to calm him as much as myself.

“You need to prep me first,” I murmured. “Not like this.”

He nodded against my nape. He lathered his fingers with spit again and slid one in. He was eager, too eager, and he moved inside me with a rush that hurt. It was the first time anyone had touched me like that and I felt two things at once, the frightened pleasure of finally doing it and the pain of how fast, how rough he was doing it.

“Slower,” I asked him, but he didn’t listen.

He slid in a second finger, then a third, and a moan slipped out of me, and I couldn’t tell whether it was from pain or something else. Adrián couldn’t wait anymore. He pulled his fingers out and got back into position, and this time, when he pushed, I felt the head beginning to enter for real. A stab of pain ran through me. Instinctively I clenched with all my strength to force him out, and he didn’t like it. He thrust again, harder, but now he couldn’t even open me up a little.

And then I noticed it.

The music downstairs had suddenly gone quiet. The laughter was thinning out. Someone was dragging chairs. The party was ending.

“It’s almost in,” Adrián insisted, trying to mount me again, still not having noticed.

I shoved him back with my shoulder and sat up. He froze, bewildered, halfway there, wearing that expression of someone who had been on the verge of getting something and suddenly sees it slipping away. He came closer and tried to kiss me, but I was already pulling my pants up, listening, paying attention to every noise coming from below.

“We’re going to do it,” he said, almost pleading.

“There’s no time now,” I answered.

I heard my father’s voice, closer than I expected, telling someone it was time to leave. His footsteps started up the stairs. Adrián reacted at last: he ran to the bathroom off the bedroom and shut the door. I barely had time to sit on the bed, grab the console controller, and pretend I’d been there all night when my father opened the door.

“Time to go,” he told me from the threshold.

“Yeah,” I answered, not looking up from the dark screen.

He looked at me for a second, hesitated, and closed the door again. As soon as his footsteps receded down the hall, I dropped the controller and went to the bathroom.

Adrián was standing in front of the sink, jerking off in a hurry, jaw tight.

“Quick,” he said when he saw me. “Get on your knees.”

I didn’t waste a second. I knelt on the cold tiles and took him into my mouth again. Barely a few seconds had passed when I felt him tense, grip the edge of the sink, and suddenly he came in my mouth. It was a lot, more than I’d expected, and for a moment I thought I might choke. I swallowed. I swallowed again. And as I did, I knew, with a clarity that left me breathless, how much I wanted him.

He was groaning softly, head thrown back, biting his lip to keep quiet. I could only make muffled, swallowed sounds, because my mouth was full. I didn’t let go even when he was done. I stayed there, with him inside me, not wanting to break away, until I heard my father’s voice again, this time impatient, calling me from the foot of the stairs.

I got to my feet. I looked him in the eyes. His face was flushed, his hair stuck to his forehead, and he gave me a look I had never seen on him before.

“I swallowed it all,” I told him in a low voice.

“Yeah,” he replied, almost smiling. “You did.”

And he kissed me. A slow kiss, different from all the others, as if only then he were understanding what had just happened between us. For one second I forgot the house full of people, my father, the danger.

Only for a second, because my father shouted my name again and I sprang away from Adrián, my heart racing.

“Give me mouthwash,” I demanded, desperate, opening the mirrored cabinet. “Quick, give me the mouthwash.”

He was laughing silently as he handed me the bottle, and I rinsed out my mouth with trembling hands, looking at myself in the mirror, not fully recognizing the boy staring back at me. Two minutes later I went downstairs, hair neat, shirt in place, and my father mussed my hair and asked if I’d had a good time. I told him yes. I wasn’t lying.

In the car on the way home, I watched the lights of Adrián’s house receding through the window, and I ran my tongue over the roof of my mouth looking for a taste the mouthwash had already wiped away. I didn’t sleep that night. Not because of guilt, or because I was afraid of getting caught. But because I was already counting the hours until I could see him again, and find the next excuse.