Andrés Villarreal

That afternoon I only wanted to correct some sketches on a terrace. I ended up sharing beers with them and, weeks later, much more than conversation.

I was in my pajamas, coffee half-finished and a scorching novel in my hands, when I heard his key in the door and knew that morning wouldn’t end with reading.

For years his wife called me “the mistress.” But I never was. I was his sex worker, and this is the truth she never wanted to hear.

She caught me watching those videos behind her back. Instead of getting angry, she smiled and asked, “Do you really want another man to fuck me in front of you?”

I thought I had the situation under control. I thought an old man with no strength couldn’t do anything to me. That was my first mistake of the morning.

I told myself it was just curiosity. I uploaded four photos, used my fake name, and waited to see if anyone still looked at me. That same week, Matías appeared.

When she came back from the bathroom without any panties on, I knew that night we were going to cross a line neither of us would want to erase.

When Damián offered me the body of his model, I knew the bill was coming due. And it came, on his bed, with my wrists cuffed behind my back.

Every time she squeezed my hand, I understood it: she was crossing and uncrossing her legs so he could see everything.

I’d promised her a different anniversary gift. What she never imagined was that my surprise was waiting for her on the other side of a hole in the wall.

I went into the game to make friends. I stayed because there were men there who wanted the same thing I did: something real, nameless, and without a future.

She came out of the bathroom in a white blazer that barely covered anything, a red pacifier on her lips and that smile of hers. I knew that night would be different.

We had spent two years sitting across from each other without knowing we were both keeping the same secret: a parallel life full of desires no one would have guessed.

Sandra had never surprised me like that. But that afternoon in the pine grove, with Lucía and Marcos just a few meters away, she decided it was time.

The message came the night before: “Tomorrow you’ll be my teacher. Bring a uniform.” I held the phone in my hand, unable to sleep.

I was wandering aimlessly when he lifted his head from a second-floor window and held my gaze as if he knew, before I did, that we’d end up tangled in his sheets.