Andrés Villarreal

He’s twenty-two and asked me, staring down at the street, whether I really liked going down between a woman’s legs. That night, I told him everything I knew.

I went to the coast for two days of work and brought my friend along. I never imagined a dinner in red dresses would leave its mark on my body that way.

Her suitcases were in the car and her resignation was in hand. She only had one more door to cross before starting over—and that door changed everything.

I wrapped my legs around his waist just as he came. It wasn’t an accident: I knew exactly what I was doing, and I wanted it.

The first time it was just a reflection in the glass: a still silhouette on the other side of the courtyard, watching her eat breakfast in her robe. She didn’t pull the curtain. She didn’t close it either.

Every time she left that apartment, she swore it was the last time. And the next day she came back in the shortest skirt, ready to please him again.

When my friend opened the bag, there was no uniform at all: just wings, a garter belt, and fishnet stockings. And the trailer was already waiting to roll.

I’d spent years fantasizing about it, but I was still a virgin in back. That December afternoon, in a motel room, I finally let him cross that last frontier.

I never told her what I imagined at night while she slept beside me. This is the confession I’ve kept silent since we arrived in that city.

For years I swallowed her provocations and played the patient friend. That August afternoon, on her balcony overlooking the sea, something inside me broke.

We booked the hotel to rest, but what I had in my backpack had other plans for that cold, rainy night.