My Confession: What I Look for Every Thursday in the Street

My name is Renata, and I carry around thirty-five years that nobody believes when I tell them. It’s not vanity, it’s a fact: my body still hasn’t learned how to behave. One look hardens my nipples, a deep voice at exactly the right moment leaves me wet as if I were twenty. The manuals I read out of boredom have a clinical name for this. I prefer to call it appetite, and I’m not about to apologize for having it.

It’s Thursday. The early March heat clings to the asphalt and I’m wearing a thin cotton dress, black, almost transparent when the sun shines through it. No bra, because I hate marks. Nothing underneath, because I hate waiting. I walk toward the bus stop that I no longer use to go anywhere in particular. I use it to look. To choose.

I saw him before he saw me.

Messy brown hair, broad shoulders the kind you earn on a court on weekends, a T-shirt that clung to his pecs and jeans that promised more than they hid. Twenty-one, I guessed. His Adam’s apple bobbed when our eyes met. I smiled to one side, let my lips part just enough for him to imagine things he still didn’t dare name.

He froze in place. The bus arrived, I got on first, and he got on behind me. Exactly as I wanted.

I sat in the second-to-last row, by the window. He hesitated for a moment and ended up dropping into the seat beside me. The bus was half empty: two office workers dozing in the back and an elderly woman with her forehead against the glass. The rattle of the engine was the perfect excuse for my thigh to brush against his, as if by accident.

—Sorry —I whispered, not moving a centimeter away.

—No… no, it’s fine —he stammered. His voice had that lovely crack in it, the one of someone who still doesn’t quite control what he feels.

I turned my face toward him. My chest was rising and falling a little faster than normal, and my right nipple was already showing like a dark button under the fabric.

—What’s your name? —I asked, while sliding two fingers down my own thigh and hiking the hem of the dress up.

—Mateo —he replied, and his eyes dropped straight to my hand.

—Renata —I said. And without any more preamble I spread my legs a little.

I wasn’t wearing anything underneath. He understood it the moment the fabric gave way. He swallowed with an effort that showed on his whole face. I took his hand, which was shaking, and placed it on my knee.

—Touch me —I ordered in a very low voice—. Nobody’s watching us.

His fingers moved slowly, uncertainly, until they found me. When he brushed the exact spot with the pad of his finger, a short sound escaped me that I disguised as clearing my throat. He startled for a second, but he didn’t pull his hand away. On the contrary: he grew bolder and started moving with a clumsiness I liked more than any technique learned by heart.

—You’re… —he didn’t finish the sentence.

—I’m always like this when something really interests me —I replied, and squeezed my legs for a second to trap his wrist.

The bus braked at a stop. A couple of guys got on and sat at the front. Mateo froze his hand. I didn’t. I slowly pushed my hips against his fingers while I looked out the window, my face blank, as if nothing at all were happening under the dress. I felt my belly clench, the heat climbing up my spine.

—More —I demanded through clenched teeth.

He obeyed. He changed the angle, groped blindly, and on the third try found the right spot. I moaned against his shoulder and covered the sound with a fake yawn. I came there, in silence, biting my lip until I stopped breathing for a moment. When the trembling released me, I carefully took his hand away, brought it to my mouth, and kissed it while looking him in the eye.

—Get off with me at the next stop —I told him.

He nodded as if hypnotized.

***

We got off at a stop that led nowhere interesting: a half-abandoned industrial park, empty warehouses, the occasional forgotten car in the distance. We walked to the side of a windowless building, where shadow and silence were the only witnesses. There, without saying a word, I shoved him against the brick wall.

I lowered the zipper with impatient fingers. I freed him and had him in my hand: thick, firm, exactly the way I like it. Longer than it was wide, with a slight upward curve.

—Here? —he asked, looking toward the empty street.

—Here —I confirmed.

I knelt on the dirty asphalt without thinking about my knees. I opened my mouth and took him all at once. Mateo let out a rough groan and buried both hands in my hair. I worked slowly at first, running my tongue over him flat, then with hunger, until his fingers clenched hard and his breathing became a mess.

—Renata, wait… I can’t take this like this —he gasped.

—Then don’t take it yet —I answered, and stood up.

I turned around, planted my palms on the wall, and pulled my dress up to my waist. I spread my legs and arched my back.

—Now. And don’t come until I tell you to.

He didn’t need any more instructions. He grabbed my hips and entered with one hard thrust. A shout escaped me, echoing off the brick and getting lost in the industrial park. He started moving with an urgency he couldn’t contain, his body slamming against mine in a rhythm that grew surer and surer. I slipped a hand between my legs and helped myself.

—Faster —I asked.

He sped up. He drove into me as if he wanted to prove something to me, and he succeeded. I felt the second orgasm climb, deeper than the first, while my breasts swung freely under the dress and the rough fabric rubbed my nipples until it drove me mad.

—I’m going again… don’t stop —I ordered, and burst against the wall, my muscles tightening around him.

—I want more —I said, still trembling—. Not like this, another way.

***

I came out of him, turned around, and jumped to wrap myself around his waist. He held me by the ass with both hands, surprised by his own strength. I impaled myself on him again, this time facing him, and kissed him deeply while I rose and fell at my own pace, setting the rhythm with my hips. He was learning fast. He was starting to understand that with me there was no need to guess, only to follow.

Then I made him sit down on a forgotten cardboard box against the wall. I sat on top of him, back to him, my hands resting on his knees, and rode him with broad, slow movements. He parted me with his thumbs so he could look, fascinated, like someone discovering something he hadn’t known existed.

—Turn around —he said suddenly.

I smiled. I loved that he was finally taking the initiative.

He lifted me as if I weighed nothing and put me on all fours over the box. He entered from behind, now with long, deep thrusts that pulled a sustained moan from me every time he withdrew almost completely and drove back to the hilt. I rested my forehead on the cardboard and let myself go.

—I want more —I whispered, turning my head just slightly—. From behind.

He stopped for a second, surprised.

—Are you sure?

—Slowly. Do what I say and you’ll see.

He looked for saliva, moistened his fingers, and prepared me with a softness I wouldn’t have expected from someone so young. Then he set the tip in place and pushed in millimeter by millimeter. My body yielded little by little. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, letting the burn turn into something else, while my own hand moved again up front to keep the rhythm.

—Like that, no rush —I told him.

—It’s… —he couldn’t find the word.

—I know —I replied.

He started moving. First with fear, then with a rhythm that was already his. I came again, this time with a different tremor, longer, one that nearly threw him out. He held my hips and kept going until his breathing broke completely.

—I can’t hold it any longer, where…?

—Anywhere you want except where it’ll show —I said, and laughed between gasps.

He emptied himself with a growl from deep inside, his body rigid, his hands dug into my skin. We stayed like that for a moment, panting, the industrial park silent around us.

***

—Do you want to keep going? —I asked, turning toward him with a smile he was already starting to fear.

—Can you… can you do more? —he stammered, incredulous.

—Honey —I said, adjusting my dress—, I’ve spent my whole life training for more.

I took him by the hand to my car, parked two streets away. We climbed into the back seat. With the windows fogged up, we went on for almost two hours: him on top, me on top, on our sides, in a thousand ways he’d never tried before and was discovering with the face of someone who has just changed religions. I pinched his nipples until he moaned, let him mark my breasts with his mouth, sat on his face until I lost count of how many times.

When we finally stopped, the sun was already setting. Mateo was wrecked, sweating, with that lost look of someone who has suddenly understood what he’s been missing. I, on the other hand, felt that electric calm that only comes after satisfying —for a while— the hunger.

I gave him a slow kiss.

—Thanks for Thursday, puppy.

He smiled, still dazed.

—Are we going to see each other again?

—Maybe —I replied, opening the door—. If you behave yourself… or if you behave very badly.

I started the car and drove off, leaving behind the smell of sex, the echo of moans, and a twenty-one-year-old boy who would probably never look at girls his own age the same way again.

And as I drove home, with my body still throbbing and my skin sensitive, I was already thinking about who the next one would be. Because this thing I’m confessing to you has no cure, and I’m not looking for one either.

It’s never enough. It never was.