Hey guys. My name is Mathis, I'm 27, I live in Paris, and I'm the kind of guy who spends more time on his knees than swiping on apps. I love sucking dick. Not "a little." Really. The smell of a still-warm tracksuit, the weight of a heavy cock on the tongue, the silence of a parking garage at eleven at night. If you're into gay blowjobs without a studio backdrop, this story is for you.

It was a Friday. Nothing special about it. Just that sticky end-of-summer heat that clings to the walls even after dark. I'd finished too late, I'd been hard the whole metro ride, and instead of heading home I veered toward a multi-storey parking garage on the edge of a wood, east of Paris. I won't give you the name. Real spots, you burn them by writing them down. Let's just say a parking garage like the ones you'd film here: concrete, ramps, yellow fluorescent lights, a car every three minutes.

On level -1, a dark sedan was already there, engine off, driver's window cracked open. Low music, old raï, almost ridiculous, and a smell of menthol cigarettes. The guy stepped out without hurrying. Black tracksuit, white trainers too clean for that hour, short well-groomed beard, a t-shirt that showed off his chest. One of those gay Arab guys you run into and immediately file under "he's going to look at me like I'm already on my knees." Algerian, I found out later. Early thirties. Calm voice. Not some guy.

He sized me up for a second. No smile. A nod.

— You here to film or here to suck?

I answered honestly.

— Suck.

He opened the back door. No Instagram foreplay. The cabin smelled of warm leather and cheap aftershave. He sat sideways, thighs open, and just pulled down his tracksuit. No boxers. His cock dropped heavy, already half-hard, wide head, visible veins, low-hanging balls. A big thick cock, not a smooth porn cock: a real one, slightly curved, still soft enough for me to weigh it in my hand before it hardened against my cheek.

I got on my knees between the seat and the door. The parking garage concrete pressed into my trainers. Him, one hand in my hair, the other on the headrest. He didn't speak right away. He just pushed. I opened up. The taste was already there — skin, salt, a hint of soap. I licked the underside, slow, because I love it, and because guys like him get harder when you take your time at first. When he was full, hard, hot, he just said:

— Deeper.

Deep-throating isn't a performance. It's a rhythm. I relaxed my jaw, leaned in, felt the head pass the back of my throat, breathed through my nose against his roughly shaved pubic hair. He moaned once, short, like a guy who doesn't like being heard. His hand tightened. He started fucking my mouth in short thrusts, not violent, just right, the kind a man makes when he knows what he wants and doesn't need to play tough. Every now and then a car would pass on the ramp. The headlights swept across the ceiling. We didn't move.

After a while he tapped my shoulder twice.

— Outside. Too hot in here.

We backed up against a pillar, partly sheltered from the ramp, right on the edge of the open air: the night air on my wet face, the tracksuit still down, his glistening cock. He leaned his back against the concrete. Me on my knees on the greasy floor. Out there, without the car door to hide me, it was rawer. More beautiful too. His beard, the yellow fluorescent light on his cheekbone, the way he watched the ramp just in case. I went back to work. Sloppier. More spit. The sounds of sucking carry further outside, stupid thing to say, but it's true.

He finally spoke, in a low voice.

— You're the real thing. Not a tourist.

I pulled back just enough to answer, lips still pressed against his head.

— I came here for this.

He smiled for the first time. Not kindly. Satisfied.

— Swallow or facial?

I hesitated for a second. I love both. That night I chose the facial. A cumshot, when it comes from a guy like that, is nothing like a figure of speech. It's hot, it's thick, it slaps against your cheek, runs into the beard I don't have, stays at the corner of your mouth.

He sped up. Short thrusts. His thigh was trembling against my ear. He pulled out suddenly, stroked himself twice while holding the back of my neck, and shot. The first rope caught my forehead, the second my open mouth, the third my chin. I swallowed what was already on my tongue. The rest I left. He let out a quiet "fuck," tapped my cheek with two fingers, almost tenderly, and pulled his tracksuit back up.

We didn't exchange numbers. He lit another cigarette, watched me wipe myself with the bottom of my t-shirt, and said:

— Same time next week. If you're here, you're here.

He got back in the car. The sedan left level -1 without a screech. I stayed a minute against the pillar, the taste still there, concrete in my knees, the nearby wood smelling of humus and petrol. That's what I'm looking for, every time: not a romance. A real hookup. An Arab guy who knows what he's doing. A mouth that's good for something.