The Migrant Who Knocked on My Door That Rainy Afternoon

For those reading me for the first time, my name is Renata, though for years I have signed as Astarte, in honor of the goddess who in ancient times represented love and desire. I am forty-nine years old, tall, long-legged, and firm-bellied, and I usually draw more than a few looks when I walk into a place. I was born in Colombia, but I live in a huge, chaotic city in the center of the continent, where my husband and I have built our life.

I almost always wear short, fitted dresses, the kind that outline the silhouette without needing to show too much. I like feeling eyes on me, I admit it. At my age I’m no longer embarrassed to say I enjoy awakening desire, in men and, why not, in women too. What I’m going to tell happened for real, a few months ago, and I still can’t quite believe I was capable of it.

It was a rainy Saturday. My husband had gone to work and my daughters had gone off separately with their partners. I was left alone at home, restless, with that warm feeling that won’t leave me in peace when I’ve gone too many days without anyone touching me. I took a long shower, stroked myself under the water until the urge calmed a little, and stepped out of the bathroom with my body still burning.

I put on a pale blue dress, plain and short, the kind that hints at more than it shows. Stockings that reached mid-thigh, open-toe heels, and nothing under the dress except a very thin thong. I decided not to wear a bra; I don’t like the garment showing through, and the truth is that that afternoon I wanted to feel free. I looked at myself in the mirror and smiled. You’re looking for trouble, Renata.

Over the past year, my city had filled up with people coming from very far away in search of a better life. Migrants from everywhere, many of them from Haiti, were knocking on doors offering to do any kind of work in exchange for a few pesos or a hot meal. My husband and I, who also arrived in this country as foreigners, have always tried to lend a hand when we can. And that afternoon, almost as if fate had read my thoughts, I had a mountain of pending chores that my daughters had refused to do.

The doorbell rang a little after four.

I opened the door and found a very tall young man, with a shaved head and a well-built body, soaked by the rain. I guessed he was about twenty-six. He wore a tank top clinging to his chest and sweatpants that left little to the imagination.

—Good afternoon, ma’am —he said in a sweet accent, looking me in the eye—. Don’t you have any work? I’ll do anything. I don’t want anyone’s handout, just a chance.

Something in his voice, in that stubborn dignity, softened me. And something lower down, in my belly, stirred when I saw how the wet fabric clung to his shoulders.

—Look, sweetheart —I said from the doorway—, I can’t pay you much, but I’ve got plenty of food and plenty of work. Come in, leave your things at the entrance.

—Do you live alone? —he asked, curious, while looking around the house.

—No, I live with my husband and daughters. They all went out today. —I smiled—. Today I’m alone.

—Your house is very beautiful —he murmured, and I noticed he was getting a little nervous.

I took him to the back patio, where I had some overgrown shrubs and a couple of trees that needed pruning. I explained where to start and sat down at the garden table, with a direct view of him. The rain had stopped and the sun was starting to warm the afternoon.

Watching him work was a pleasure in itself. After a while he took off his shirt so he wouldn’t soak it with sweat, and I drank in every drop that ran down his broad back and firm chest with my eyes. Dear God, control yourself. But I didn’t want to control myself. The heat was rising everywhere, inside and out.

I served him some lemonade and brought it to him myself instead of asking him to come over. I bent a little more than necessary when I set the glass down on the bench, and I noticed his eyes drop to my cleavage and then snap away quickly, as if he’d been caught stealing. I liked that modesty. I liked knowing I made him nervous.

—Take your time, there’s no rush —I told him, and stood beside him, pretending to inspect the shrubs he had just trimmed—. You’re doing very well. It shows you aren’t afraid of work.

—In my country I learned laziness doesn’t fill your stomach, ma’am —he replied, wiping his forehead with his forearm.

That seriousness of his, that maturity in such a young body, stirred something inside me in a way I hadn’t expected. It wasn’t just desire. It was tenderness mixed with an old hunger that had been asleep for months.

—What’s your name, darling? —I asked when he came over to ask for water.

—Frantz —he replied, drinking from the glass thirstily.

—And did you study back there, before you came?

—Yes, I finished high school with honors —he said with shy pride.

—That says a lot about you. —I leaned in a little, letting my gaze fall where it needed to fall—. And tell me, a handsome boy like you must have left some girlfriend waiting for him.

—No, ma’am —he lowered his eyes, embarrassed—. The truth is… I’ve never been with a woman.

I looked at him for a long time. The whole afternoon condensed into that sentence.

—Then we’ll have to do something about that —I said softly.

—What did you say? —he asked, not understanding.

—Nothing, sweetheart. Come on, help me with something.

I walked slowly toward him. No more words were needed. I kissed him, and he responded with a clumsiness that melted me, a mixture of hunger and fear. I ran my hands over his wet back while his, hesitant at first, slid down to my hips and then lower, squeezing me with a force that surprised me.

—That’s how I like it —I whispered in his ear—. Don’t be afraid.

He kissed my neck, and I clung to his shoulders, feeling his breathing speed up. Then all at once he lifted me off the ground as if I weighed nothing. I wrapped my legs around his waist and we kissed again, deeply, while he carried me inside the house.

***

He set me down on the edge of the bed. My hand went straight to his crotch, searching for what I was already guessing under the fabric. He was hard, tense, and the cloth showed a small damp patch. I pulled down the waistband of his pants and freed him. He was big, bigger than I expected, dark and firm, the tip shining with desire.

—This isn’t the first one I’ve seen —I told him, looking him in the eyes—, but with you I’m going to have to take my time.

I started slowly, with my tongue, taking him in completely, pausing at every inch. He took my hair in his hand, not violently, but like someone clinging to something to keep from losing his balance. I heard him moan softly, a broken word in his language that I didn’t understand but understood perfectly.

—Slowly —I told him when he pushed too much—. Don’t be in such a hurry; the afternoon is long.

Frantz learned fast. He watched me as if I were teaching him the world. When I let go, he looked at me with a mix of gratitude and urgency that made me feel powerful, almost divine.

He slid the dress straps down my arms and my breasts were left bare. I moaned when I felt his warm mouth on them, his clumsy, hungry lips. He brought his hands to the hem of the dress and lifted it up to my waist. He moved the thong aside with two fingers and stared at me for a second, as if asking permission.

—I’m all yours —I told him.

He knelt and kissed me between the legs with a devotion I hadn’t expected from someone inexperienced. I guided his head, showed him the rhythm, and he obeyed every instruction with an enthusiasm that brought me my first orgasm almost without warning. I arched over the bed, dug my fingers into his shaved skull, and let out a cry that was surely heard in the street.

—Now, yes —I panted—. Come here.

***

I took him to the living room sofa, where the afternoon light came in through the window. I settled myself and guided him toward me. The first thrust was slow, careful, as if he were afraid of hurting me. I took his face in my hands.

—Don’t hold back —I told him—. I want to feel you for real.

Then he let go. He drove into me with new strength, deep, discovering with every movement what his body was capable of doing. He held my legs, lifted them onto his shoulders, and I lost myself in that feeling of being completely open to a stranger who that very morning didn’t even know I existed.

—I liked you from the moment you opened the door —he confessed between gasps.

—Well, here I am —I answered, laughing against his neck—. Enjoy me.

We did it on the sofa, against the wall, on the rug. Frantz had the stamina of his age and I had the experience of mine, and between the two of us we made something that didn’t resemble anything I’d lived in years. At some point my phone rang and I let it ring. Nothing in the world was going to pull me out of that afternoon.

We ended up sweaty, tangled together, laughing like two accomplices. He sat up to clean himself and I told him there was no need, that we were already too mixed together to pretend to be modest. I kissed him one last time, slowly, without hurry.

—Was it good? —he asked, still with that trace of shyness that had enchanted me.

—It was perfect —I told him, stroking his cheek—. Never forget this afternoon.

I fed him, prepared a bag of supplies for him, and paid him quite a bit more than the pruning was worth. When he left, he stopped at the door and looked at me as if he wanted to say something. He didn’t say it. He only smiled and disappeared under the gray sky that threatened rain again.

I closed the door and stood there for a while, leaning against it, my heart still racing. You shameless woman, Renata. Maybe. But at forty-nine I learned that desire gives no warning, that it arrives when you least expect it and knocks on your door on a rainy afternoon. And I, who call myself the goddess of love, wasn’t willing to let it pass me by.

I like helping those who need it. That afternoon, we both came out ahead. Until the next confession.