The morning in the hotel was quiet. When I came downstairs for breakfast, my former student João, who had arrived in the wee hours of the morning, was already waiting for me in the hotel café, hunched over a cup of espresso, his hoodie sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the ragged burn scars on his arms. His long fingers were cradling a small cup of strong coffee.
“Hi, João,” I said. “Morning! I am starving! What’s for breakfast here besides coffee?”
He quietly coughed a greeting in return and said:
“Hi, Mars. Haven’t looked yet. Let’s go and check out.”
We walked towards the buffet where an array of sandwiches sat neatly arranged on wooden trays, each labeled in tidy handwriting. There were six options: the tosta mista, two slices of bread toasted to a crunch that overflowed with melted ham and cheese; the sandes de frango with shredded chicken and a dash of piri-piri hot pepper; the prego no pão, a simple steak sandwich oozing flavorful garlic butter; the sandes de atum, a tuna sandwich with olives; the sandes de ovo, an egg salad sandwich with parsley; and the bifana, a marinated pork sandwich with a smear of mustard.
João coughed again, helping his voice to come back to life after a long night.
“I’d j-just take the t-tosta mista... it’s, uh, s-safe,” he said with his familiar stammer. “C-can’t mess it up. And it w-won’t—” He stopped himself, clearing his throat before adding, “—won’t get in the way of c-coffee.” His eyes flicked toward mine, unsure whether I’d approve of his choice.
“I trust you,” I said. “The tosta mista it is, then.”
I made myself a large latte at the coffee station, scooped two ham-and-cheese sandwiches, and we sat down to eat in comfortable silence. As minutes passed, the café around us started buzzing with the easy morning chatter of many international visitors in town for the festival. The air was filled with the scent of toasted bread and freshly brewed coffee.
After a while, my silent companion João glanced up. “You just got in, right?”
“Yeah, flew in from London last night. The hotel’s decent, though the walls are thin. Could hear someone arguing about soccer at midnight.”
João huffed a quiet laugh.
“S-sounds s-so Porto,” he said. He then tore off a piece of crust and chewed it thoughtfully. “I took the train from Lisbon. I live in the suburbs, technically. Not much going on there, so… I figured why not c-come here for a c-c-couple of days?” He shrugged, rubbing a thumb absently over the side of his cup.
“And where are you staying?” I asked.
“Got a half-room in the attic of this place,” João said, tearing off another piece of crust. “Not bad—except for the stairs.”
“No elevators to the attic?”
He smirked. “Nope. Have to take the back stairs. Narrow as hell.”
I nodded, taking another sip of my latte. “How’s your throat?”
He coughed lightly into his fist. “Managing.”
I knew well that Joao had had a bad accident in one of his fire shows last year, and burned his throat badly. He had three surgeries and now wore a big scarf around his neck to hide an ugly surgical scar.
We finished our breakfast, watching the steady flow of people coming and going, and I asked about our plans for the day.
“Festival stuff later, obviously,” João said, standing up and stretching. “But first, I need to grab a few comics. There’s a second-hand shop not far from here. You’ll like it—feels like the owner has never thrown anything away.”
So, we wandered into one of Porto’s quirkiest bookshops, a cramped space overflowing with graphic novels, indie zines, and secondhand comics stacked haphazardly on wooden shelves. João moved around the shop with purpose, flipping through pages of the comics with careful fingers. He picked out a few Portuguese comic books, and then admitted, almost shyly, that he liked to redraw scenes—sometimes changing small details, sometimes adding entirely new panels to twist the story. (“Not… uh, to s-sell or anything. Just… for f-fun.”)
I had never heard him talk about drawing before, and for a moment, I imagined him hunched over a desk late at night, lost in his own versions of these worlds. I bought a comic for myself, more to remember the meeting than to actually read it later, and João volunteered to carry it.
From the bookshop, we stepped out into the narrow streets of Porto, the city already humming with the energy of the festival. João tucked his comics and mine under his arm as we walked, weaving past groups of tourists clutching guidebooks and locals chatting by café doors. The air carried sweet aromas of roasted chestnuts, fresh bread, and something faintly metallic from the river.
The further we went, the more the festival atmosphere unfolded in front of our eyes. Banners in deep hues of red and gold were draped across balconies, fluttering in the breeze. We met several street musicians along the way—there was an accordion player outside a pastry shop, and further down the street, near a tram stop, there was a trio with guitars and a tambourine. João barely glanced at them, but in the corner of my eye I caught him clicking his fingers in time for the rhythm as we passed.
As we approached the embankment, the road sloped downward, gradually revealing the shimmering Douro River. The Ribeira district was already alive with early festivities. The collapsible market stalls already lined the waterfront, selling everything from ceramic swallow figurines to sets of embroidered linen. A small crowd gathered around the stand selling ginjinha, and we could hear, from far away, the happy clinking of tiny glasses and people laughing. Across the river, Vila Nova de Gaia’s port wine cellars stood in neat rows, their names painted boldly onto red-tiled rooftops.
We ended up lingering by the embankment for nearly three hours, letting the city’s rhythm pull us along. We wandered through the market stalls, where João spent some time browsing old festival posters while I studied and took pictures of hand-painted tiles. At one point, we too stopped for a drink—and enjoyed tiny cups of *ginjinha* cherry liqueur served from a wooden booth. The sweet syrupy liquid first warmed our throats, and then sank to our stomachs, leaving a hot trail behind. João sipped his slowly, watching the boats drift by, while I downed three in rapid succession, enjoying the rich cherry taste.
Then we sat for a while on a stone ledge near the water. The sun climbed higher and higher, and the performers began to gather—there was a juggler setting up near the bridge, and a woman in a bright skirt wove through the growing crowd balancing a tray of pastel de nata on her head. João didn’t say much, but now and then, I caught him sketching absentmindedly with a fingertip on the dusty surface of the stone, tracing out shapes only to brush them away.
João was the best person in the world to sit quietly with, especially since I didn’t want to strain his throat with too much conversation.
Then we got up lazily and continued strolling along the water’s edge, past moored rabelos—the flat-bottomed boats once used to transport barrels of port up and down the river. Soon we passed a couple of kids throwing bread crusts to ducks, their giggles carrying over the sound of lapping waves. The festival had only just begun, but Porto was already shifting into celebration mode.
Several hours later we went for a long, unhurried lunch at a small tasca tucked in a narrow side street, away from the tourist crowds. João recommended that I order a generous helping of tripas à moda do Porto, a hearty tripe stew that I was reluctant to try but did anyway, if only to see his expression when I took the first bite.
João watched, silent, as I chewed, then grinned with a corner of his mouth again, while his eyes remained steely cold in his usual manner. “N-not… uh, as b-bad as it sounds, right?” The stew was surprisingly rich, and I had to admit he was right. With the soup came a bowl of sautéed kale, a huge basket of crusty bread, and a glass of madeira for both of us.
By the afternoon, the city had fully transformed. São João wasn’t a festival for quiet contemplation—it was going to be loud, chaotic, and full of traditions that bordered on the absurd. One such crazy adventure unraveled on the banks of the Douro, where several teams of young people had gathered for the fireworks battle, setting up elaborate rigs, launching bursts of color into the yet bright sky, and trying to outdo one another. The air smelled of smoke and gunpowder, and the sky above the river lit in a rainbow of colors.
The first to launch were the cascata fireworks, the golden fountains that sprayed upward like molten metal, cascading back down in shimmering droplets before fading into the dusk. Then came the palmeiras, massive bursts that unfurled like palm fronds, their bright tendrils arching over the water before dissolving. The cometas followed—quick, sharp streaks of white and blue shooting up in rapid succession, leaving thin glowing trails before vanishing. Another team set off a series of crisantemos, large, symmetrical bursts that bloomed in perfect spheres, each petal of fire crackling as it expanded outward. Then came the serpenteantes, spiraling trails of red and green that wove unpredictably across the sky, twisting and writhing before popping in a flurry of sparks. The kamuro fireworks, thick with golden tails, lingered the longest, trailing heavy embers like slow-falling stars. And finally, the silbadores, small but piercingly bright, whistled high into the air before exploding in erratic, popping bursts, sending the crowd into delighted laughter.
When the night deepened, we joined the main event—the lantern procession—walking with the crowd as hundreds of small, glowing paper lanterns floated into the sky. There was something dreamlike about the scene—the warm flickering lights rising against the deep blue of the night, carried upward by the breeze.
As we walked, there was a bunch of things happening around us. A little girl, no older than six, clutched her lantern with both hands, her face scrunched in concentration as she tried to keep it steady. A group of teenagers raced ahead, laughing, releasing their lanterns all at once as if launching them into a race. An elderly couple held their lantern together, whispering something to each other before letting it go. Someone had drawn a smiling sun on theirs, the light inside making it glow like a cheerful happy face. One lantern got caught in a tree for a moment before the wind freed it, sending it bobbing upward. Near us, a young man kissed the top of his girlfriend’s head just as they released their lantern. A stray dog wove through the
crowd, sniffing curiously at people’s feet before vanishing into the night.
In the distance, musicians played soft, lilting tunes, their melodies blending with the hum of the festival. João, for once, looked completely at peace, watching the lanterns as if seeing something beyond them. And above it all, the lanterns drifted higher and higher, merging with the stars.
As the evening stretched on, João checked his watch and exhaled through his nose. “N-need to s-s-set up,” he muttered, tucking his comics into his hoodie pocket. Without further explanation, he turned toward the iron arches of the Dom Luís I Bridge, where street performers were already staking out their spaces.
I followed. Soon he found a spot beneath the bridge, near a wide clearing where a loose crowd had gathered. João unzipped his bag, pulled out a small metal canister, and poured a thin stream of clear liquid into a shallow dish. He moved methodically, testing the wind with his fingers, and stretching his shoulders.
As the sun dipped lower, he began his first number. With a quick inhale, he lifted a torch to his lips and exhaled sharply—an eruption of fire roared outward, curling into the air like a living thing. The crowd gasped, some stepping back instinctively. He moved seamlessly into the next trick, letting a thin stream of fuel dribble from his lips before igniting it, sending a trail of small, flickering embers cascading down his chin like a fiery waterfall. The light caught on the faint burn scars along his arms, turning them into shifting patterns of gold and shadow.
Previously, João had barely spoken to me about his performance, but during his act he was a different person. The awkward hesitations vanished. The fire in his hands was an angry violent beast—but a tamed beast, following his orders.
He continued with the fire palms, letting flames dance across his hands as if they were merely an extension of his skin. The crowd gasped as he clapped them together, extinguishing them in an instant. Then came the meteor swing, when he spun two flaming orbs around him in rapid, almost hypnotic arcs, tracing circles of light in the air. After that he moved seamlessly into the dragon’s breath, tilting his head back and expelling a massive plume of fire from his lips, the flames licking upward toward the bridge above.
Next, he balanced a flaming staff across his shoulders, rolling it across his back before catching it effortlessly and sending it spinning through the air. To the wild screams for encore, he did it several times with fire of different colors. Then he continued with the serpent’s whip, snapping a length of rope soaked in fuel, sending bursts of flame cracking into the night like lightning.
Then, for the finale, he stepped forward and gestured for someone from the crowd to join him. A young woman hesitated, then accepted, stepping onto the stage. João positioned her carefully, placing his firm but reassuring hand on her shoulder. Then, with a deep breath, he ignited a line of fuel on the ground, sending a wall of fire erupting around them. With the girl held securely in one of his strong arms, he raised his torch high, releasing a curtain of flames into the air, the fire twisting and curling above them like a living thing before vanishing into the night.
The crowd erupted in cheers. João, drenched in sweat, let the young woman down, wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his hoodie, and took a long and deep bow.
“Not bad, huh?” he mouthed, catching my eye, the corner of his lips twitching in the closest thing to a grin.
As we left the festival behind, João fell into step beside the young woman who had volunteered to participate in the fire wall trick. She was tall, with dark curls pulled into a loose bun, her dress still catching the glow of distant lanterns. João cleared his throat again, glancing at me before mumbling:
“Uh, P-professor, this is Ana. My… uh, friend. And… uh, a-admirer, I guess.” His lips twitched in a barely-there smirk, and Ana rolled her eyes, nudging him lightly.
João slung his arm around Ana, and her eyes widened with awe as she clung closer to his chest. They made their way through the thinning crowd toward the exit. I trailed behind, watching his broad shoulders swaying and the girl’s hand brushing his hip. From afar I heard his low and rough laughter—they walked and walked, almost leaving me in the dust without a backward glance.
Then, just past the last stalls of the festival, he stopped abruptly, his boots scuffing the dirt, and turned, waiting for me with an impatient tilt of his head, his blue eyes glinting under the strung-up lights. To me at this moment he looked like a tiger roaming the jungle, big, wild, and dangerous, carrying a limp baby antelope in his jaws.
By the time we reached the hotel, the city had quieted, the night settling into that peaceful lull just before dawn. João and Ana exchanged glances before they turned toward the stairs to his fifth floor half-room. “Good night, Professor,” he said, his voice even, unreadable.
I watched as they disappeared down the hallway, their quiet laughter fading into the dim light. Young ones, I thought, shaking my head as I closed my door and prepared for bed.
My takeaways
I have never before seen as much fire in my life, a real ocean of flickering flames, the loud hum of voices, the cracks of the fireworks and bits of music. I am yet to see as many happy people of all ages who came together to celebrate. I already miss the joyous atmosphere of this holiday, the booming of fireworks and the children’s loud cheers!
I wish we had more of such festivities in every country of the world because the released lanterns and people in happy masks showed to me their kindred spirit and their love for their beautiful city, which they gladly shared with the world.
An evening with João
Ah, sucking a straight guy off! On numerous occasions throughout my life I have enjoyed the adventure of making a straight guy horny and then sucking him off – with varying degrees of satisfaction.
Remember João, a Portuguese guy who took me on a day of fun adventures in Porto, where we watched fireworks and joined the lantern procession? We returned to our hotel, and João disappeared down the hallway with a girl fan who was almost dripping her juices in anticipation.
… By 3 a.m. I was on my knees with João’s hard cock in my mouth. He moaned, his hips shifting as he took control, guiding me. Even now, I can feel it—the way his thick cockhead pressed against the roof of my mouth, and his balls brushed my chin. It was messy, wild, and unforgettable.
… I was already in bed when João knocked on my door, his broad silhouette filling the doorway against the dim hallway light. He held a bottle of port wine in one hand, the deep ruby liquid sloshing faintly as he stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. His dark eyes flickered with a mix of frustration and exhaustion, his unruly mane of dreadlocks clinging to his sweat-damp forehead.
“She dumped me,” he said hoarsely with his sexy Portuguese accent.
He set the bottle on my cluttered coffee table and sank into the armchair, stretching his legs out.
“What happened?” I asked. “She seemed to be so… for it…”
“Found out I just wanted a blow job tonight—nothing else, you know? Got these damn burns, hurts too much for anything more. Then she wrinkled her nose, said I stunk of kerosene, apologized like she pitied me, and walked out.”
He laughed bitterly, rubbing one hand over his stubbled jaw, the faint scent of fuel and smoke wafting off him. It wasn’t unpleasant to me—just raw, alive, like the fire he tamed for a living.
I grabbed a tube of aloe lotion from the bathroom, thinking that the cool gel would be a pleasant contrast to the heat radiating off him.
“Let me help,” I offered, nodding toward the angry red patches peeking out from his rolled-up sleeves. He shrugged, peeling off his soot-streaked shirt with a wince, revealing a lean, muscled frame with many marks of his trade. The burns were fresh—two jagged streaks on his forearms, a smaller one curling along the side of his neck, and another low on his back, just above the waistband of his jeans. He smelled faintly of ash, kerosene and sweat, and it was truly a primal mix that stirred something in me as I approached him. He didn’t protest, just watched me with those sparkling blue, unreadable eyes as I squeezed the lotion into my palms and started rubbing it into his skin, gently but firmly, feeling the tension in his muscles ease under my touch.
I worked slowly, my fingers tracing the burns with care. On his arms, the skin was rough, still warm from the fire’s kisses, and he hissed softly sucking in the air through his teeth as the cool lotion sank in. The one on his neck was trickier—I brushed his hair aside, my breath grazing his ear. As I spread the gel over the tender spot gently, his pulse jumped beneath my fingertips. The burn on his lower back forced me closer, and I went down on my knees, tugging his jeans down an inch to reach it. He shifted, muttering something in Portuguese under his breath, then stood abruptly, hooking his thumbs into his waistband. “There’s one more,” he said, voice low, almost daring. He shoved his jeans and underwear down in one motion, revealing a final burn—a large, fierce red mark just above the curve of his ass. His skin there was smooth, taut, and I swallowed hard, feeling my hands trembling slightly while I was dabbing the lotion on. The intimacy of the moment crackled between us like static. I was standing next to a handsome naked straight guy, feeling my dick harden.
Then, without warning, João’s hand closed over mine, guiding it forward around his hip. My fingers brushed something hard, thick, pulsing with heat, and I froze as I felt his erection—solid and venous, standing straight out, perfectly horizontal and steel hard. He didn’t say a word, just let out a low, wheezing breath as my hand instinctively wrapped around the hot surface, pulsating under my palm.
I could feel the blood surging through him, the weight of his hardon feeling so heavy and real in my hand. He shifted from one foot to the other, planting his feet wider, and I pressed myself closer, my chest against his back, and my breath warm on his spine as I started to stroke him. His hands roamed up his own body, kneading his chest, sliding down to his flat stomach, muscles flexing under his touch as he surrendered to the rhythm I set.
He turned suddenly, and there it was now in front of me—his cock in full view, a thick, venous log that made my mouth water. It was shorter than I’d expected but quite broad, the loose foreskin peeled back to reveal a glistening, swollen head, flushed dark with arousal. His balls hung low, huge and heavy, swaying slightly with each deep wheezing kerosene-smelling breath he took, rising and falling like a tide. The veins snaked up the shaft, pulsing faintly, and a bead of precum glistened at the tip, catching the dim light. I couldn’t look away, the sight of it mesmerized me. His quiet submission was, for me, a perfect mix of power and vulnerability that sent a jolt straight through my balls and made my dick itch painfully in anticipation.
I felt drawn to it like a moth to flame, and, encouraged by his excited breathing and lack of any comment, began with slow, teasing licks along the underside of his cock. My tongue flattened against the thick veins, tracing their winding paths from the base to the tip, feeling the subtle ridges of his dick’s cavernous bodies. I moved up and down slowly, savoring the texture, enjoying the faint roughness of his skin and the way it twitched under my touch. Each of my licks was long and languid, coating him in my spit, and I could hear his breath breaking above me, and a couple of quiet curse words slipping out in Portuguese as I explored every inch of that pulsing underside, coaxing out the first faint taste of him.
Then I shifted, focusing on the head, swirling my tongue around it in tight, relentless circles. I zeroed in on the slit, flicking over it with quick, precise darts of the tip of my tongue, tasting the sharp, salty precum that welled up more and more with every circle. My lips hovered around the sensitive ridge as I continued, the wet slurping sounds now filling the air between us. His hips jerked slightly, a low groan rumbling from his chest, and I kept at it—teasing, relentless—until his thighs tensed and his fingers flexed at his sides, the pleasure visibly building in the way he struggled to stay still.
Next, I wrapped my lips around the tip, sucking hard in short, sharp bursts. I kept it shallow, my mouth creating a tight seal just over the head, pulling in the air with quick, forceful pulses that made him gasp. My tongue pressed flat against the underside while I sucked, adding pressure, and I let my teeth graze his shaft ever so slightly—just enough to hint at danger without crossing the line.
Each burst felt like a jolt of electricity, making him shake. The rhythm had him rocking forward, his hands hovering near my head like he wasn’t sure whether to push me off or pull me closer, his breath coming faster now, ragged and uneven.
I changed pace, taking him deeper, letting his salty dick slide now to the back of my throat in long, slow strokes. My lips stretched wide around his girth, the weight of his dick heavy on my tongue as I relaxed my jaw and fought the urge to gag. I breathed in through my nose, and the scent of him—musk and kerosene—flooded my senses. Gagging, slurping and moaning, I continued taking him in, letting him feel the wet heat of my mouth enveloping him fully. My hands gripped his thighs and my fingers dug into the firm muscle there. Time after time, for several joyous unending minutes I took him in again and again, saliva dripping down my chin, and his low hoarse moans vibrating through me like a reward.
Finally, I pulled back and went messy—covering his shaking dick with wet, sloppy kisses all the way down the shaft, my lips dragging over the veins, smearing spit and precum in a shameless display of how horny I was for him. I nuzzled his balls, pressing my face against their heavy warmth, kissing and sucking lightly at the tender skin, breathing him in deep. Then my tongue darted out, lapping at the base before sliding back up, leaving a glistening trail. I was no longer a professor, not the academic writing a paper but a raw, unrestrained animal, and I could gratefully feel his body trembling, hear the excited wheezes in his throat as I worshipped every part of him, my own arousal spiking at the sheer abandon of that moment.
His excitement built fast, too—his breaths turned deep and uneven, punctuated by low moans that soon grew into long hoarse growls. He started shifting restlessly, stepping from foot to foot, his hands tangling in my hair as he pushed his dick in harder against the roof of my mouth. His precum soon flooded my tongue, thick and bitter, dripping down my chin as he thrust his dick more and more shallowly, his control finally fraying. Sometimes he’d pull back just to slap my cheeks lightly with his cock, the wet smack of it sending an electric shock through me, or he’d tug my hair, forcing me deeper until I could barely breathe, uttering short aggressive moans and growls, feeling desperate on the edge to his utmost pleasure.
My own arousal was unbearable now, with tight heat coiling in my balls, surging up my shaft. I reached down, pinching my foreskin between my fingers, shaking it fast and rough until I couldn’t hold back. I burst in a shuddering rush, a huge cumshot spilling into the pocket of my foreskin, warm and sticky, my whole body trembling with the release. A second later João let out a guttural growl, his cock throbbing in my mouth as he came, too—four hot, thick spurts hit the back of my throat. I swallowed what I could, the rest spilling over my lips. His cum was sweet and smelled of the cherry liqueur.
He pulled out, still half-hard, and again slapped his dick across my face—once, twice—the heavy, wet weight of it sending delicious bolts of pleasure through my body. I leaned into it, loving the lewdness, the sheer physicality of him marking me like that. When soon his dick turned into a small thick button with a large overhang, and hid between the balls in the hairy ballsack, we stumbled to the sofa, collapsing in a tangle of limbs, sweat-slick and breathless.
He sprawled out, one arm flung over his eyes, and chuckled hoarsely.
“I knew you were gay,” he said, matter-of-factly, like it was nothing. “Getting s-sucked by a g-g-guy? Not faggish on my end—just yours. I’ve got a g-girlfriend in Lisbon, you see. This is just… c-convenience.” He smirked and took a swig of the port wine from the bottle. “You suck well, khem-khem, I can see… uh, exp-perience…” He was laughing at me now, drunk and spent, but what did I care if I had just seen him convulse in pleasure that no man before me had ever given him.
My Takeaways
Nothing beats sucking a straight guy. For some reason the feeling that this dick usually gets hard only for pussies and having it straining in my mouth felt very horny. I also like it how most straight guys release their bi-ness into the air of the room when they get carried away by the stronger touch, a bigger mouth, stronger lips and a bit of biting on what they think is their root of maleness. I then like see them change from the growling animal into a relaxed heap of relief.
Next day João was his usual, if only too hung over, self. He silently took me to the airport and gave me a big hug at the gate, and I felt for the last time, the outline of his dick on my leg.
He and I keep calling each other back and forth and messaging on Facebook, but since then he has been cautious not to invite me anywhere anymore. Next year he is getting married. To this day I imagine his lucky fiancée giving him a good long suck as he shudders and wails and spills threads of cum into her little mouth, with her gagging and him saying in hot whisper: “C-caralho, tão bom,” and “N-não para”—stuttering through his consonants in a sexy way that even thinking about makes me hard, right now as I write this.
