The Fantasy My Boyfriend Confessed to Me After a Few Too Many Drinks

My name is Lucía, and I still struggle to believe how far we went. I’m twenty-nine years old and I’ve been living with Bruno, my boyfriend, for three years now, in a small apartment that feels huge when it’s just the two of us. I always thought I knew him by heart: how he breathes when he sleeps, which silences mean what, what he’s thinking before he says it. That certainty shattered one ordinary night, the kind when you open a bottle for no reason and the conversation drifts on its own toward unexpected places.

We were on the sofa, barefoot, with our second glass of red wine half-finished. We talked about nothing and everything until we ended up on the subject of fantasies. I confessed that mine, the ones I had ever imagined, we had already fulfilled together: sex on the beach at dawn, in the car with the windows fogged up, in the last row of an empty movie theater. I had nothing left pending.

—And you? —I asked, resting my feet on his legs—. Got anything you haven’t told me about?

Bruno stared at his glass longer than necessary.

—I do —he said—. But it’s weird. Better forget it.

—You can’t leave me like that now. Tell me. You can say anything to me.

I had no idea what I was about to hear.

It took him a good while to get started. He shifted on the sofa, ran a hand over the back of his neck, and finally asked me if I knew what kind of man likes it when his partner is with other men. I told him yes, that I’d read a little about it. Then he explained that there were people who got aroused precisely by that: by the idea of their woman enjoying herself with someone else, by knowing it, by imagining it.

—Are you telling me that you’re into that? —I asked, between nervous laughter and confusion.

—I am —he admitted, without looking at me—. And there’s more.

He looked something up on his phone and held out the screen to me. It was a paragraph, one of those texts that circulate in forums, talking about men who enjoyed being humiliated by their partners, being called useless, being told their women preferred other men to them. The harsher the words, the greater the pleasure. I read it twice, disbelieving, while he waited for my reaction, holding his breath.

—I can’t believe it —I said at last—. How long have you known this about yourself?

—Forever. I started reading stories like that and realized it was my biggest fantasy. I never thought I’d tell you. It must be the wine.

Suddenly a thousand things clicked into place. The fact that he was never jealous. That he let me go out alone with my friends, encouraged me to dress provocatively, never once made a scene. It wasn’t indifference. It was desire.

—Thank you for telling me —I said, and I meant it—. It must not have been easy.

He was quiet for a moment and then let out, almost like a joke that wasn’t really a joke:

—If one day you ever felt like it…

—No —I cut him off right away—. I understand what you like, I swear, but I could never be with someone else. It’s just not my thing.

Bruno nodded and lowered his gaze. He looked sad in a way that hurt me, because he’s the kindest man I’ve ever known, the one who indulges me in everything. I only wanted to make him happy, and yet what he was asking for was miles away from anything I was capable of doing. So I came up with something in between.

—Wait —I said—. Maybe there’s a way. What if we play it?

—How do we play it?

—Like a game. When I go out, I’ll text you things. That I’m going to leave with someone, that I’m doing it. Or in bed, I can tell you in your ear while I touch you. Without anything really happening, just so you can imagine it.

His face lit up like a kid’s. He stretched out his hand and I realized, brushing him over his pants, how turned on he already was by the idea alone.

—You’re the best —he murmured.

That very same night we started. I felt strange saying out loud things I would never have said, but the response of his body was so immediate, so honest, that something in me caught fire too. I whispered in his ear while I caressed him, told him that one day I would go looking for someone else, that he had permission to see me with another person. I didn’t recognize my own voice. And he, beneath me, trembled like I had never seen him tremble before.

—More —he panted—. Don’t hold back.

He finished with an intensity that left me stunned. Then he held me, kissed my forehead, and thanked me as if I’d given him something huge. I laughed, a little uncomfortable, a little proud. I didn’t fully understand what had just happened, but I liked the effect it had on him.

***

The game became a habit. Over the weeks I lost my embarrassment and, without really noticing, started to enjoy it on my own. I liked having control. I liked the feeling of power in every message I sent him from a bar. Something in me changed: I felt freer, more confident, more in charge of my body. I flirted with men at parties without guilt, knowing nothing was going to happen, just for the pleasure of feeling desired.

Until Tomás showed up.

I met him one night at a party at a mutual friend’s place. He’s thirty-two, has an easy smile, and a way of listening that makes you feel like the only person in the room. We danced, talked until dawn, there was chemistry from the very first minute. The remarkable thing was that he never tried anything: not a stolen kiss, not a hand wandering too far. When we said goodbye, he asked for my number. I never give it out, and yet that night I did.

I didn’t tell Bruno. Not because I was afraid —I knew he’d love it— but because I was sure nothing would happen and I didn’t want to get his hopes up for nothing. Tomás and I talked every day, ran into each other at gatherings, kept up that constant flirtation that tastes like danger. He knew I had a boyfriend. He didn’t seem to care. I cared less and less.

Two weeks later he invited me to a get-together at his place. I accepted without thinking too much about it. There were several people there, music, drinks, a relaxed atmosphere. At some point in the night we ended up dancing facing each other, staring straight at one another, and the distance between our faces shrank on its own. I don’t know who made the first move. We kissed. A long, deep kiss, the kind that wipes out the rest of the world. He took me by the waist and pulled me against his body, and I wrapped my arms around him without thinking of anything else.

—Let’s go to my room —he whispered in my ear.

I said yes. He locked the door and everything became urgent. While he kissed my neck, I thought about Bruno, about his fantasy, about how I was about to make real what I had whispered to him in lies so many nights. That thought, far from stopping me, only turned me on even more.

What followed didn’t resemble any version I had invented. Tomás took his time, attentive to every reaction, and at the same time there was a confidence to him that left me defenseless. He said things in my ear, told me I was his that night, and I, who had always been the one in control in my game with Bruno, discovered what it was to give myself over completely. I ended up shaking more than once, biting my lips so I wouldn’t cry out.

When it was all over, I lay there for a while staring at the ceiling, taking in what I had just crossed. For the first time in my life I had cheated on my partner. And the strange thing was that I didn’t feel guilty, but instead a weird mix of adrenaline and tenderness, because I knew exactly who it would matter to, and in what way.

***

I got home a little after nine in the morning, my hair still damp from a shower I hadn’t taken alone and a mark on my neck I didn’t bother covering. Bruno was awake; he’d made me breakfast. The moment he saw me, he knew. I didn’t need to say a word. His face was a poem of astonishment and a desire he could no longer hide.

—What happened last night? —he asked, his voice rough.

—Sit down —I said—. I need to tell you something.

I sat beside him and told him everything, slowly, without skipping a thing. Who Tomás was, how I met him, how it had happened without my planning it. He listened with shining eyes, hanging on every word, and I could see on his face that this was, for him, the most exciting confession he had ever heard in his life.

—You have no idea how hearing you makes me feel —he said when I finished.

—I know —I replied, taking his face in both hands—. That’s why I tell you everything. Because I love you, even if there’s someone else now.

That morning we made love differently from all the others. I whispered in his ear, but this time it wasn’t a game, it wasn’t a lie we invented together. It was real, and we both knew it. Bruno found his fantasy made real and I found a part of myself I hadn’t known existed: the woman who decided, who chose, who honestly held a desire that anyone else would have thought impossible.

I don’t know where this leads. I know Tomás wrote to me again, that Bruno asks me about him every night with a knowing smile, and that the two of us are, against all odds, closer than ever. Maybe one day I’ll tell you how it continues. For now, I’ll hold on to the certainty that the secret my boyfriend confessed that wine-soaked night ended up bringing us closer in a way I never could have imagined.