At Romi’s Bachelorette Party, I Crossed a Line with a Stranger

My name is Camila, I’m twenty-eight years old, and I’ve always had a complicated relationship with my own body. I’m broad-hipped, heavy-breasted, with arms I never really liked. Julián, my boyfriend of nearly four years, keeps telling me he’s in love with exactly that, with the curves I try to hide under dark blouses. That night, Romina’s birthday night, I left home in a black dress he had picked out the week before and with the silent promise not to have more than two drinks. I was going to a bachelorette party, not a funeral, but I framed it that way: two drinks, one hour of dancing, taxi home before two.

Romi lived in a large apartment, inherited from her father, in a quiet neighborhood in the north of the city. When I arrived, there were already about fourteen women in the living room. University friends, cousins, neighbors, two coworkers of the bride, and, in one corner, Romi’s mother, whom we all called Aunt Marta. Aunt Marta was in her early fifties, but she had spent years acting like she was one of us. She was the first to ask for tequila, the last to go to sleep, and the only one who never got tired of dancing.

—Camilita, you made it —Romi hugged me as soon as I walked through the door—. You’re drinking with me, right?

—One and a half, no more. Tomorrow I’m seeing Julián.

—One and a half —she repeated, with that laugh of hers that always ended up sounding like a command.

At first, it was the usual. Silly games with straws and bananas, group photos, a pink feather boa draped over the bride’s shoulders. We ate canapés, toasted the future Mrs. So-and-so, someone put on reggaeton at a volume that made the glasses vibrate. I danced a little. I stayed close to the fruit table, chatting with one of Romi’s cousins about nothing in particular, keeping an eye on the clock.

—Girls, in fifteen minutes the surprise arrives! —Romi shouted from the middle of the living room.

—What surprise? —someone asked.

—A very handsome, very tall surprise. You’ll see.

The group applauded, and I laughed out of politeness. I pictured a guy dancing with very little clothing on, cheap bills, compromising photos that would make people laugh in some group chat tomorrow. I sent Julián a message: everything’s fine here, I’ll text you when I’m leaving. He replied with a heart and a “be a good girl.” I smiled. That part, I still believed.

***

The stripper’s name was Mateo, or so he said. He showed up dressed as a firefighter, helmet tucked under one arm and a smile that knew exactly what it was doing. He was tall, tattooed, with the kind of back you build in a gym over years, not in a couple of months. He took Romi to the center of the room, sat her in a chair, and started unbuttoning his jacket to the beat of a song I didn’t know.

The girls were screaming like teenagers. Romi covered her face, laughing, and every time he got too close, the others clapped and threw small bills onto the chair. Aunt Marta was in the front row, with a drink in each hand. She was wearing a red dress that fit her waist too tightly, and she watched Mateo with an attention that was no longer party attention.

—Camila, come on, stand over here! —someone yanked my arm.

—I’m going for water —I answered, and slipped into the kitchen.

When I came back, the atmosphere had changed. Mateo was already in boxer briefs. The living room lights had been dimmed, the curtains were closed, and the music was different, slower, denser. Romi had gotten up from the chair and was touching his chest like he was a toy she’d just bought. Aunt Marta was still drinking, her lips parted.

One more drink, I thought. Just one, so I don’t look weird.

And that was the mistake.

***

I don’t know exactly when the party stopped being a party. Maybe when Mateo took off the boxer briefs, or maybe a little earlier, when Aunt Marta got down on her knees and everyone cheered her like it was the funniest thing they’d seen in years. The truth is that at some point during the performance what was under the boxer briefs stopped being a cartoon and became something real, huge, exposed in the middle of the living room before the eyes of fourteen women who had lost their shame.

Aunt Marta was the first. She took it in both hands without asking anyone’s permission and put it in her mouth with the naturalness of someone who had been imagining it for years. There was a second of silence, a physical silence, almost solid, before the room exploded. The girls were screaming, banging on the furniture, someone held up their phone to record. Romi was laughing uncontrollably, clutching her stomach.

—Go on, Mom, go on! —she shouted, still laughing.

I froze in place. My heart was pounding in my throat. It wasn’t horror, not exactly; it was something stranger, a mix of discomfort and curiosity I was ashamed to feel. Aunt Marta finally pulled away, her mouth shining, and collapsed onto the sofa amid the applause. Mateo was still standing in the middle of the room, completely naked, with that look he must already know by heart: the look of someone who knows what comes next is inevitable.

I slipped back into the kitchen. I closed the door behind me, braced my hands on the counter, and tried to think. My phone was heavy in my pocket. Call Julián, tell him you’re uncomfortable, order a taxi. But also: What are you going to tell him? That your friend’s mother just sucked off a stripper in front of fifteen people? I laughed to myself, a nervous laugh, and then the door opened.

—There you are —Romi said—. We were looking for you.

Behind her came two of her friends, both holding drinks and with glazed eyes.

—Romi, seriously, I don’t feel well.

—Liar. You’re fine. Come on, I want to introduce you to Mateo properly.

—Romi…

—One photo, just one photo and I’ll leave you alone.

It wasn’t a photo. I knew it the moment their hands closed around my wrist. The other two got behind me, laughing, gently pushing me toward the hallway. I could have screamed. I could have planted my feet on the floor. I didn’t. I walked.

***

When they brought me back into the living room, Mateo was sitting on the sofa, legs spread, his body shining with sweat. Aunt Marta was still beside him, her red dress wrinkled, fanning herself with a magazine. The girls formed a circle around me and started chanting my name. Camila, Camila, Camila. I felt my cheeks catch fire.

—Come here, beautiful —Mateo said, in that deep voice that was obviously part of the script.

I thought of Julián. I swear it: I thought of him, of his smile when he picked out the dress for me, of the heart he had sent me by text less than an hour before. I thought of our bed, of the table where we had breakfast on Sundays, of the key to his place hanging on my keychain. I thought of all that, and at the same time I let Romi push me two steps closer.

One hand pulled the zipper of my dress down my back. Another took off my stockings. I never knew whose hands were whose. The dress fell to the floor, and I was left in the black underwear Julián had also chosen that same morning, not knowing what was going to happen to it. The girls clapped as if I had just finished singing.

Mateo stood up. He kissed my neck first, slowly, knowing exactly how to do it. His hands were enormous, much bigger than my boyfriend’s, and they squeezed my breasts over the bra with a new firmness. When a moan escaped me, it was as if every light in the room focused on me.

—That’s it —someone murmured.

—Look at how she gives herself over —Romi said.

They lowered me to the floor, onto the plush rug in the living room. I did not resist. That’s the part that’s hardest to tell: I did not resist. Mateo settled between my legs, and with a movement I barely felt he tore off my panties. I was wet. I was wet and that embarrassed me more than anything else. My body was deciding for me.

—Easy —he said, and rubbed the tip against my lips.

—Wait, no… —I managed to say.

—Wait nothing —a voice beside me laughed.

He pushed. Once, deep, all the way in. The stretch was such that a cry escaped me, and I couldn’t tell whether it was pain or pleasure. I dug my nails into his shoulders. The girls were screaming around me, someone was filming, Aunt Marta had sat down on the sofa in front of us and was rubbing herself over her dress with her eyes closed.

***

The worst, or the best, I don’t know, was that my body gave in before my head did. Before I could think of Julián again, the first orgasm shook me, brutal, a current that left my legs trembling and my ears deaf for a few seconds. Mateo didn’t stop. He started moving with trained rhythm, holding my hips so he wouldn’t slip out, sinking all the way in each time. The sound of skin striking skin mixed with the music and the others’ screams.

I wasn’t Camila at that moment. I was a borrowed body, a body that responded on its own, that arched its back and opened its legs wider and accepted each thrust with a moan. Romi came over and brushed my hair out of my face, almost tenderly, as if she knew what was happening inside me.

—Easy, friend. This stays here.

Liar, I thought. This stays here but it gets into every last corner. This stays. This changes something.

Mateo sped up. I heard him grunt, felt him grow harder, and when he said “I’m coming,” he didn’t stop. He didn’t ask me either. I felt each pulse inside me, one by one, and then the sticky heat of something that could no longer be undone. My body answered with a second orgasm, softer, sadder, and then it was over.

He pulled out slowly. The girls clapped one last time. Someone handed me the dress, all balled up.

***

I locked myself in Romi’s room. I closed the door with the key, sat on the edge of the bed, and stared at my thighs for a very long time. His semen was sliding slowly down the inside of them, a white stain that seemed to mock me. I thought about pills, about late-night pharmacies, about what I would make up for Julián if tomorrow he asked why I was acting strange. I thought about the ugliest thing of all: that a very small part of me, a part I didn’t want to acknowledge, was not sorry.

Downstairs, the party went on. I heard the laughter, the reggaeton, another collective scream when one of them joined in on what I had started. I didn’t go back down. I got into Romi’s shower without asking permission, washed until my skin turned red, and put on one of her pajama pants. Then I curled up under the blanket and left my phone facedown, far away, on the nightstand.

Julián had sent me another message. I saw it out of the corner of my eye, without picking up the phone. It said: let me know when you get home so I can relax, I love you.

I didn’t answer that night. I didn’t know how. Tomorrow, I thought, tomorrow I’ll know what to do. Tomorrow I’ll be able to look him in the eye and decide whether I tell him this or keep it to myself forever. Tomorrow I’ll know who I am after tonight. But not tonight.

That night I only closed my eyes, felt the чужой weight still throbbing between my legs, and knew that somewhere, at some exact moment between the fourth drink and the living room rug, I had stopped being Julián’s girlfriend and become something else that still didn’t have a name.