The Dream in Which My Body Became a Woman
When I lowered my hand to touch myself, what I found between my legs was not what I had gone to sleep with. And worst of all, I didn’t want to pull away.
When I lowered my hand to touch myself, what I found between my legs was not what I had gone to sleep with. And worst of all, I didn’t want to pull away.
The mirror in the dressing room reflected a woman she didn’t recognize. In a few minutes, dozens of strangers would see her naked. And still, she chose to step through the curtain.
She went back to confession every week for the same reason, always leaving out the most important part: that the man on the other side of the grille was the owner of all her sins.
—You don’t have to believe you can —he whispered in her ear—. I do. Your only job tonight is to surrender and let your body obey.
I promised myself I wouldn’t give up until I made it happen. What I didn’t know was how long my body would take to give me what I’d been begging it for all night.
I stepped into the shower to wash off the day’s exhaustion and ended up on the floor, the stream between my legs, calling your name under my breath.
She had never masturbated at work. But that morning, with her phone full of pictures of her neighbor and the door unlocked, she discovered how much risk turned her on.
No man ever made me finish. I found that out late, after years of other people’s hands and faked orgasms: the only body that knew exactly what mine wanted was my own.
I’d kept that desire locked away for years. That dawn, drunk and defenseless, I let it slip in front of the one person who could make it real.
Rubén filled the coffee maker while, on the other side of the window, our women stopped pretending. Neither of us looked away, and then his hand found mine.
I’d been watching him cross the hallway for weeks. That afternoon he called me to his office, and something inside me knew everything was about to change.