PatriciaCali

The apartment was an icebox, so I knocked on her door to ask about the heating. She came out in pajamas and offered me coffee—something I wouldn’t forget.

I looked up at the professor everyone feared, and my blood ran cold: it was the woman I’d masturbated with on camera for two years.

Three nights sleeping beside him in that tiny cab, until one early morning his huge hand began roaming over me as if I already belonged to him.

She screamed at me in the elevator, and ten minutes later she was dragging me into her apartment. I was a virgin, clumsy, and terrified; she knew exactly what she wanted from me.

She climbed the ladder in front of me with nothing beneath her nightgown, and I knew I wouldn’t leave that apartment the same man who entered.

She was thirty-eight, had a predictable husband, and a body nobody had ever known how to read. That night, alone at home, she decided she wanted to feel something at last.

I sat on the edge of the dock looking for nothing, but his gaze—like a man who knows what he wants—undid me before I said a single word.

I’d been crossing paths with him in the water for months without saying a word. That Sunday, when his hands brushed my waist on the ladder, I stopped pretending I didn’t want him.

That night, while I was correcting his exercises in the hotel room, I felt his gaze fixed on me and knew I could no longer be just his teacher.

His cold hand closed around my arm like a grip. I was ninety kilos of muscle, and yet in front of him I felt small, inspected, bought.

Andrés kept his card for two days without daring to write. When he finally did, he never imagined that that same night he’d be naked against the wall in his own entryway.

We were alone in the weights room when he took off his shirt and told me to touch. I never imagined how far we’d go after closing the locker room door.

Four months later, we went back to the same locker room hoping to repeat that afternoon. We didn’t count on a third man, young and shameless, watching us from the other side.

For weeks I’d wanted him to come looking for me again. That night I understood that if I wanted to feel that way again, I’d have to go looking for it somewhere else.

The ad said “free erotic session for young guys.” What it didn’t say, and what I understood perfectly, was how he planned to charge me that night.

It started as a game in the back row of a theater and became an addiction: finding the city’s most impossible corner to lose control.