I Missed the Last Bus and She Offered Me Her Sofa

The night of February fourteenth had already fallen when I realized I’d fucked up. It was 8:15, the LED streetlights were tinting the street a cold white, and I was wandering aimlessly, watching the shops pull down their shutters. I’d just watched my bus leave. I saw it pull away while I ran after it like an idiot, tongue hanging out and with not the slightest chance of catching it.

I retraced my steps to the terrace where, minutes earlier, I’d said goodbye to Diego, Lucía, and Carla. Diego was the first to see me appear again around the corner.

—Mateo, what are you doing here? Weren’t you going to catch the bus?

—I missed it, man. What a disaster.

—Fuck, yeah. Didn’t you say you had no other way to get back to your city?

—Exactly. I watched it leave right in front of my face. In my twenties and this shit still happens to me.

The girls joined the conversation right away. Lucía pulled out her phone and started looking for some last-minute ride share. I’d already checked earlier that afternoon and there was nothing, but I let her try.

—Confirmed, there’s nothing —Lucía said, wrinkling her nose.

—I’ll take a taxi —I replied, resigned—. It’s going to cost me a fortune, but it’s my own fault for cutting it so fine.

Carla, who had been quiet until then, looked up from her glass.

—No way are you going to blow half your paycheck on a taxi. Look, you were going home to eat and sleep, same as me. So you’re coming to mine. Tomorrow’s Sunday, you can head back in peace.

—You really don’t mind? —I asked, surprised by how natural the offer sounded.

—Not at all. I don’t have plans tonight either, so you’ll keep me company.

Carla was Diego and Lucía’s friend, and they were a couple and friends of mine from way back. Over the last few months she’d gotten really close with the group and they invited her to everything. I liked her: spontaneous, funny, no filter. That last trait was going to matter more than I could have imagined.

Diego and Lucía went off to eat at a Japanese place they loved. Carla and I paid the bill and started walking to her apartment, chatting along the way.

—What do you feel like eating? —she asked me.

—After the day I’ve had, something hearty.

—I’ve got chicken in the fridge, I can make a curry with rice.

—That works, but I’m buying the wine —I insisted—. It’s the least I can do for letting me stay at your place.

She winked at me and accepted only that: a bottle of wine. We stopped at the supermarket before it closed, and in the end we came out with two decent bottles of Rioja and some sweets for dessert. In the queue, Carla let out a little laugh.

—Do you realize, Mateo? The cashier must have thought we were a couple.

—A guy and a girl buying wine and sweets on Valentine’s night —I said, playing along—. Who would’ve thought?

***

Her place was small, old, the kind of apartment people rent when they can’t afford anything else. Worn furniture, walls with patched-over damp stains, and plants everywhere. Dozens of plants, cared for down to the last detail. When I stepped in behind her, a soft vanilla scent wrapped around me.

It took us about forty minutes to make the curry, talking about nonsense: Diego and Lucía, ridiculous rent prices, how good dinner was going to taste. Finally we sat on the sofa, lifted the coffee table so we could eat comfortably, and toasted with the first glass.

—Tell me something about you, Mateo, we still barely know each other —she said between bites—. What do you like to do?

—Well, running, weights, the usual stuff to stay in shape. And recently I’ve been doing things with clay. Ashtrays, cups, a few shitty little figurines. I glaze them and they don’t turn out half bad.

—Really? That’s art. What I’m crazy about is dancing. That and plants, as you’ve probably noticed.

—These are the most carefully tended plants I’ve ever seen in my life —I admitted, and it was true.

The conversation flowed on its own. We finished dinner, I took the plates to the kitchen while she refilled our glasses, and we shared the sweets. Then Carla turned off the living room light, switched on a small indirect lamp, and took five scented candles out of a cupboard, placing them around the room. The atmosphere turned warm, intimate. I started to feel too comfortable.

—Hey, sorry, I’m going to take a quick shower and put something comfortable on —she said suddenly—. I can’t stand staying in street clothes after dinner. Want me to bring you something to sleep in?

—I’d appreciate it. These jeans are killing me already.

She brought me an old, baggy blue tracksuit. I put it on and tightened the drawstring so the pants wouldn’t fall off. I suspected the clothes weren’t hers, but I didn’t know her well enough to ask.

Fifteen minutes later she came out of the shower without washing her hair. She was wearing an impossible pajama combo: the shirt, red with black stripes, from one set; the pants, light blue, from another. Mismatched, just like her. That mix of disorder and natural ease both unsettled me and gave me a strange sense of novelty in my very regimented life.

We sat in opposite corners of the sofa, a long four-seater that was probably the best thing in the apartment. Bare feet on the cushions, looking at each other while we kept talking.

—I can’t stand going to bed without showering —she said—. Or being in street clothes at home. Like this, all clean, I even take off my underwear and feel completely comfortable.

She said it like someone commenting on the weather. I, and almost anyone else, would have been incapable of confessing something like that with so little self-consciousness. But she didn’t measure these things; I don’t even think she realized she might be making me uncomfortable. Earlier that afternoon, for instance, she’d told us how comfortable she felt without a bra —something we were able to confirm at a glance— and how much she enjoyed lying naked down for a nap. On that same sofa, I assumed.

Carla was beautiful in a way that didn’t quite fit my type, but that didn’t leave me indifferent either. Brunette, petite, slim, chestnut hair, very feminine features, and a naturally tanned skin that made her attractive without effort. I wasn’t made of stone. And although my head usually follows personality more than looks, there I was, unable not to imagine her stretched out along the sofa.

***

I was trying to keep up with the conversation without showing how uneasy I felt. With my friends I didn’t care about undressing, but with her I didn’t have enough confidence. I decided it was time to build some.

—Honestly, sleeping without underwear is the best —I said—. I do it at home too.

—Then don’t be shy, man, take your boxers off. We’re comfortable here —she replied, as if nothing.

Comfortable? My face must have been tomato-red. But I didn’t know how to react other than to play along.

—I would, but I’m wearing your clothes. It’d look bad.

—Bad how? I’m giving you permission. I’m washing the tracksuit anyway.

Not knowing where to put myself, I went to the bathroom and came back two minutes later with nothing under my pants, wondering what the hell I was doing. Carla looked down at my crotch and burst out laughing.

—What are you laughing at? —I asked, dropping back onto the sofa.

—It’s just that while you were coming over here, everything was swinging. It shows a lot.

Shit. On top of that I’m half hard and I don’t even know why. I’d thought the loose pants would hide it.

—Don’t stress, that’s completely normal —she said, brushing it off—. You’ve got a dick and it shows, that’s all. We’re comfortable here.

—You’re right —I managed to say, and I sat in the same posture as her, half turned so we could talk face-to-face.

That was when something clicked in my head and I understood she really was comfortable. She was sprawled out, hair tousled, and most of the buttons on her shirt were undone, which let me see a good part of her right breast. I’d even say the nipple was peeking out. And I’d also say she knew it and didn’t care at all.

While we were talking, my gaze drifted for a second to her crotch. Wait. Is that a hole? In the seam of her groin, her pants had a tear big enough for two fingers. Carla still had her legs apart, carefree, pouring herself more wine, and every movement changed the angle.

Fuck, those are her lips. Mateo, stop looking for the love of God.

I downed my glass and poured myself more. I didn’t feel capable of telling her I’d already seen half her breast and now her sex too. I decided my strategy to survive the night would be to get a little drunk.

—So how much do you usually run? —she asked, oblivious to the chaos in my head.

—Huh? —It took me a moment to reconnect—. Oh, depends. Seven to ten kilometers, depending on the day.

—I’d like to try. As a teenager I went out a few times, but I stopped. Though, of course, I went out without a bra and even though I don’t have much chest, the bouncing hurt and I had to stop.

—I’d never thought about that —I admitted.

—Imagine running and having your tits do this constantly.

And she started bouncing on the sofa to illustrate it. Remember the unbuttoned buttons? The “comfort” was driving me crazy. I didn’t know where to look, though I had a perfectly good idea where I wanted to.

—It happens to you too —she went on, amused—. With all that swinging you had while walking, I don’t even want to imagine you running.

—Well, good boxers fix that —I said, deciding to test the so-called comfort—. Though I’ll confess I’m getting a little hard again. Guess I’m not used to this.

—What do you mean, not used to it? You’re practically a nudist, half the group has seen your dick and you don’t care.

—With you guys, yes. But you and I barely know each other and here we are, both without underwear, eating dinner and drinking wine. It feels weird. Don’t get me wrong, I’m comfortable, but this is new for me.

—You’re something else —she laughed—. If you’re uncomfortable, tell me and you can change.

—Not at all, I’m good like this. Though I have to tell you something else, and it’s a bit delicate. You’ve got a hole in your pants.

—What? Where?

—Well… right there —I said, pointing at her crotch.

Carla, without thinking and with my pathetic directions, grabbed the fabric and pulled, looking for the tear, which shifted very close to her sex from bottom to top. If there was anything else left for me to see, I saw it then.

—Fuck! Sorry, Mateo, I had no idea. I always wear this pajama when I’m alone. —She lifted her eyes to me, serious—. Did you see anything?

—I’m not going to lie. I saw something, which is why I was warning you.

—You saw my pussy in full, didn’t you? —Her tone was still serious. She’d already closed her legs, leaning against the backrest.

—With the movement you made, I couldn’t avoid it. I’m really sorry, I truly didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.

—Don’t apologize —she said, and suddenly her face relaxed—. You were right in front of me, you couldn’t have done anything else. I’m the one who should apologize, for putting you through that awkward moment.

I breathed out in relief. I’d already written the night off as ruined.

—Don’t apologize either, woman. It was an accident. And if you don’t mind that I saw you, then I’m relieved. The only thing I cared about was you feeling bad.

—No problem. If you saw it, then that’s something you got out of it —she said, with a half-smile—. Did you like it?

—It’s beautiful, I can’t say anything else —I admitted.

—Wow. So you liked my pussy, huh —and she sat up to give me a mock slap on the leg—. Then this conversation calls for opening the second bottle, don’t you think?

***

While Carla went to the kitchen for the wine, I tried to get my head straight. We’d each drunk half a bottle, plus a couple of beers before dinner. We weren’t drunk, but we were loose enough to let ourselves go completely. I’d already decided to let things happen.

She came back with the bottle open and filled our glasses to the brim —no, we didn’t have wine glasses— without a care for looking ridiculous. We toasted without taking our eyes off each other, and then something in the atmosphere finally shifted. I liked her eyes more than I had a little while earlier.

—Aren’t you going to change pants? —I asked.

—I can’t be bothered. Anyway, we’ve already broken the ice. Can I join the nudist club with you? —she said, flirtatious.

—Gladly —I replied, looking into her eyes.

We drank. She leaned back, pretending to forget about the tear in her pants, and the conversation drifted to pubic hair, who has it and who doesn’t, until it became exposed again through the fabric.

—You’re looking at it again, aren’t you?

—It’s possible I am, a little.

—Then look properly and tell me what you think —she said, teasingly, opening the hole wider.

—I think it’s frame-worthy —I answered, and placed a hand on the inside of her thigh—. Is it me, or is this turning you on a little?

Carla didn’t answer. She sat up, knocked back her glass in one swallow, and, dropping to her knees, lunged to kiss me furiously. I could taste the wine in her saliva. A few seconds later I was lying down and she was on top of me, tongue in my mouth, biting my lip and neck. When she pressed her pelvis against mine, she felt my erection, and since neither of us was wearing underwear, the friction between our sex through the thin fabric was delicious torture.

I grabbed her ass and stroked her back under the shirt. Soft, delicate skin, in contrast with her hunger. I ran my hands up to her breasts, small and soft, and played with her nipples while she mussed up my hair and tugged at my beard.

Without stopping rubbing against me, now more slowly, she began stroking me over my pants. I took advantage of that to unbutton the few buttons still holding her shirt closed and freed her chest completely. I asked her not to take it off: like that, open but still on, it turned me on much more.

—Let’s keep playing with this —I whispered, looking at the tear.

I slid two fingers through the hole and searched for her sex. She was soaked, and started moaning as soon as I touched her. I went up to her clit without taking my hand out of the fabric, while she guided my other fingers to my mouth and licked them slowly before taking them to her nipple. The room turned into a chorus of ragged breathing.

—Come closer —she asked, pulling me upward.

She untied my pants and, without effort, freed me. She started jerking me off with an intensity that made me groan from the very first moment, while I kept tending to her through the tear. Then I stood up, pulled my pants all the way off, and brought my sex to her face. No words were needed: she started sucking.

I enjoyed myself without stopping stroking her face and hair, fascinated by how soft everything about her was. The moment was cut off abruptly when she looked at me, worried.

—Do you have condoms? I don’t. I wasn’t planning on using them tonight.

—I’ve got a couple in my bag. I’m always prepared.

—Thank God. I was already seeing myself left hanging.

***

I pulled away too early, because I still hadn’t tasted her sex, and I slid her pants all the way down. I plunged between her legs and covered her from end to end with my tongue and fingers, letting my beard brush the most sensitive spots, playing with every reaction. She tried to take off her shirt and I asked her not to again. She looked at me, half surprised, half aroused, and left it on.

I put on the condom. Carla told me to sit in a chair and settled on top of me, facing me, letting me in little by little while she kissed me calmly. The movements began softly and grew stronger. I ran my hands over her whole body —hair, neck, back, hips—; I didn’t have enough hands. We touched each other like we’d been doing it for years.

She had a first orgasm and, just when I thought it was over, she stood up.

—How do you want me now?

—Aren’t you already done?

—Yes, but I’m multi-orgasmic. Don’t worry about that —she said, bringing two fingers to my mouth so I’d suck them—. Lean on the table.

I went in again from behind, delighting in the softness of her back. I started at a good pace and soon sped up, gripping her hips. The impact of our bodies sounded like applause in that dim room. She touched her clit until she had to rest her head on the table, legs trembling. Her second orgasm.

—Keep going? —I asked.

—Of course —she replied, lying down on the sofa and inviting me in.

We finished with a slow missionary that soon turned intense. I held her by the shoulders to drive in with everything I had. She kept asking for more between moans, and I was about to explode. She didn’t take long to come again, and then I warned her that I couldn’t hold out any longer.

—Do you want to finish in my mouth?

—Of course I do.

I took off the condom and lay down. She went at me furiously, intent on emptying me as quickly as possible, and succeeded in seconds. It was a draining orgasm, the kind that leaves you without strength. Carla lay down on top of me and kissed me.

—Mateo, I swear none of this was planned —she said, resting on my chest—. I just wanted to help a friend. It all just happened little by little.

—Don’t worry. I had a great time. And honestly, what difference would it make if you had planned it? Missing that bus was the best thing that’s happened to me in months.

She smiled and gave me another long kiss. We stayed like that a while longer, naked, talking about life without hurrying. The next day we had breakfast together and, at last, I caught the bus I was supposed to take.

We never slept together more than a couple of times after that. But from that Valentine’s night on, a connection took shape between us that went far beyond sex, and that even now I still struggle to explain.