The Night I Discovered How Much I Like Being Desired

This happened several years ago now, and I still find it hard to put into words. I never told anyone—not even the friend who, without knowing it, was at the center of that entire night. I’m writing it now because there are things you need to get out, even if it’s only among strangers.

Back then, I had just quit my job as a cashier at a café downtown. That was where I had fallen in love with a coworker, Tomás, whom I got along with far too well. There were days when I felt his gaze lingered a second too long, that his smile was meant only for me. But he had a girlfriend, and they both seemed happy, so I swallowed everything and said nothing for months.

When I quit, we stopped seeing each other every day, but we kept texting almost every night. And one message from him, in the early hours of the morning, convinced me it was worth taking a risk. A mutual friend was celebrating his birthday and invited me. I made the selfish calculation: Tomás’s girlfriend was covering my old shift, so she wouldn’t arrive until late. It was my opportunity.

I arrived at the party a bundle of nerves. I’ve never known how to drink; alcohol hits me fast and hard. That night, to calm my anxiety, I had considerably more than I should have. At eight, while it was still early, I gathered my courage and asked him to step outside to the patio with me.

Under a bougainvillea, with the music fading behind us, I told him I liked him. That I’d been keeping it to myself for months. That I wanted to give it a try.

He looked at me for a second as if he couldn’t believe it. Then he kissed me. It was a hungry kiss, the kind that seemed to have been waiting a long time.

“You have no idea how much I like you,” he said against my mouth. “I’ve wanted to have you like this for so long.”

His hands didn’t waste any time. They went straight to my hips, to my ass, as if they already knew by heart a path they had only just discovered. Dizzy and happy, I felt my whole body catch fire. When he suggested we go inside to a room “because it was cold and you’re wearing a short spaghetti-strap dress,” I nodded without thinking.

***

The room was some kind of makeshift office: a desk, a two-seater armchair, books piled everywhere, and a couple of old photographs on the wall. He appeared with a bottle of tequila and two glasses. I poured for myself, he poured for himself, and we kissed again. Only now there was haste in him, an urgency that, in my drunkenness, I mistook for pent-up desire.

His hands traveled over my legs and thighs, climbing up my ribs to my breasts. When one of them stopped between my legs and felt how wet I was, he let out a low moan of satisfaction. He pushed the fabric aside and stroked me from the outside, and I gripped the armchair because my legs were no longer responding.

With his other hand, he slipped the straps of my dress down, one and then the other, and lowered the fabric until my breasts were bare. I wasn’t wearing a bra that day. He looked at them for a moment, smiled, and buried his face between them while one finger entered me and slowly twisted. I only moaned.

It didn’t last long. He lifted my dress, pulled it off in one motion, and tossed it behind him. He did the same with my underwear. I was left naked in front of him, and he undressed hurriedly, almost clumsily. He knelt between my legs and, holding the back of my neck with one hand, brought my mouth to his cock. The gagging didn’t seem to bother him; on the contrary, it turned him on. I kept going until I couldn’t anymore and threw my head back.

Then he lay on top of me. He entered slowly, silencing me with his mouth, and only when he was completely inside me did he let me moan. He bit my nipples while he moved with a delicacy I hadn’t seen in anything else he did. I came quickly, soaking the armchair. He followed seconds later, sinking his teeth into my neck to stifle his own moan, and stayed inside me for a while, as if he wanted to leave every last drop.

***

What came afterward was what truly marked me. He dressed calmly, offered me a cigarette, and poured more tequila. We talked for a while, and it was pleasant, almost tender. I was still naked, curled up, with no idea where my clothes had gone.

When he stood up, he said it was late and he had to leave. That he’d had a great time. I asked him, my heart pounding, what would happen with us.

“Look, I really like you,” he said, already with his hand on the doorknob. “But I only see you as someone for bed. I’m not looking for anything serious with you.”

And he left.

I remained sitting in that unfamiliar armchair, smoking, while anger and disappointment rose up my throat. It wasn’t the sex that hurt me; it was the expectation. If he had asked me for just one night, I would have said yes anyway, but at least I would have known what I was getting into. Instead, he had let me believe in something so he could take it and throw it away.

I called my friend Renata, the only person who knew what I had planned that night. I told her everything in a low voice. Practical as always, she told me to stop crying over an asshole, that she was meeting some friends in the downtown square before heading to another party, and that I should go with them to forget the bad time I’d had.

It seemed like a good idea. I gathered up my dress and the short leather jacket—the only things I could find; my underwear had been lost forever in that room—left the party staggering, and hailed a taxi on the avenue.

***

The square wasn’t far away; I was there in ten minutes. When I got out, I opened my bag to pay and couldn’t find my wallet. I had left it at the party, probably fallen among my things in that room. Luckily, I had gathered enough loose change to pay for the taxi.

It was early Wednesday morning, and the square was nearly dead. I didn’t see Renata anywhere. I took out my phone, and only then did I realize the extent of the disaster: I had spoken to her around ten, and it was already past midnight. I had missed calls and a message from her: “I’ll call you tomorrow.” I had fallen asleep in that armchair for much longer than I’d thought. The group had already left.

I sat down on a raised flower bed to think. It was bitterly cold, and I wasn’t dressed for being out on the street: a short spaghetti-strap dress, no bra, no underwear, and a leather jacket I couldn’t even close because it was tight across my chest. I had no money for a taxi and no patience to walk the many blocks home in those shoes. My only way out was to reach the bar district and find a taxi driver who would let me pay upon arrival.

I took out a cigarette to smoke before walking. Almost immediately, a man of about forty approached me, dressed like an office worker leaving work late. Nothing remarkable. In a polite voice, he asked whether I would sell him a cigarette. I offered him one and a light, and he started making small talk: the weather, the time, how empty the square was. Despite being dizzy, I answered with ease.

When I finished my cigarette, I stood up to say goodbye. Then he asked me something strange.

“You’re not working anymore?”

“No, I left that job recently,” I replied, not understanding, thinking of the café. “I’m cold. I’d better go home.”

“Don’t you want to give me one last service?”

I looked at him without understanding.

“A service?”

“Yes, you know. I saw you earlier and thought you worked here.”

That was when I understood. I had never seen it with my own eyes, but I knew that in that square, at night, it was common to find girls and boys selling themselves. In an offended tone, I clarified that I wasn’t a prostitute.

“Sorry,” he apologized. “It’s just that I saw you dressed like that at this hour, and from the way you were sitting I noticed you weren’t wearing underwear. I thought you worked. I don’t usually do this, but I thought you were very pretty.”

“Thank you, but I’m not. I just had a strange night.”

“I understand,” he said, and there was sincere disappointment in his voice.

***

And here comes the part it took me years to admit. I’ve always liked feeling desired. Knowing that someone is looking at me hungrily turns me on in a way I can’t control. And the idea of being reduced to an object of desire, that particular night, touched something deep inside me. I had just been through one man who used me and discarded me like a toy. Now another was mistaking me for a woman who sells herself, gets used, and says goodbye. If I’m going to be that for everyone, at least it’ll be on my terms. Something ignited inside me.

“Well,” I said, surprising myself, “the truth is, I lost my money tonight. Maybe... I don’t know. What are you looking for? Maybe we can come to some arrangement.”

His face lit up. He said he’d be satisfied with oral. It seemed harmless enough for me to say yes. His car was nearby, on a parallel street.

He opened the back door and asked me to sit on the edge of the seat while he stood outside, keeping watch on the street. He asked me to lower my dress so he could see my breasts and lift it to see the rest. I did. He began massaging my breasts, carefully pinching my nipples.

I liked it, but I was cold and told him so. He undid his pants, and when I saw him, I felt an enormous surge of excitement and got wet again. The strange thing was that it wasn’t him or what I was about to do; it was the situation itself. Seeing myself there, right out on the street, being treated like a woman who charged for a service. That turned me on like nothing else.

I took him in my hands and kissed him slowly, tracing him with my tongue. He didn’t make much noise, but every time I ran my tongue over him, he shuddered. I moved to the tip, kissing it slowly, and then put him in my mouth while working him with both hands. His breathing quickened. With one hand he held my head, and with the other he gripped the car. With my free hand, I began to touch myself.

I was so wet that I had to stop for a second and apologize for the seat. He laughed. I continued until he pulled my hair, moved me away, and, in a hoarse voice, asked me for the full service. I didn’t think about it. I turned around, got on my knees on the seat with my elbows digging in, the dress sliding down my back. He went in all at once; I was so wet there was no resistance. He didn’t take long to finish, his hands clinging to my hips, pressing himself against me as if he wanted to stay inside.

I cleaned myself with a damp towel I carried in my bag and straightened my clothes. He took out his wallet and asked how much he owed me. I hadn’t even thought about it; I named a random amount. He didn’t hesitate: he counted out some bills and put them in my hand. He thanked me, got into the car, and drove away.

***

I lit a cigarette and began crossing the square back toward the main street. In the first section there’s a children’s playground and a stone staircase that serves as bleachers during events. I was crossing that area when a man stopped me. He was heavyset, very well dressed, and smelled incredible; I still remember that scent.

Holding an unlit cigarette, he asked me for a light. While I searched for the lighter in my bag, he took the opportunity to ask how much I charged. Those words triggered a huge rush of emotion. As if I hadn’t already been with two men that night, my body caught fire again. Smiling, I asked him what he wanted. He said only oral. I gave him a random number, and he accepted without arguing.

I offered to use his car, but he shook his head. He asked me to follow him. We walked to some trees, behind a bench and a trash can, with the bushes covering my back. I knelt, pulled my dress down, and left my breasts exposed. He nodded, pleased.

I took him all the way in, moving slowly and taking him deep. I was dripping again, but I didn’t touch myself; being so close to the street made me nervous. He gripped my head with both hands and set the pace without much care, his stomach striking my forehead with every thrust. He came suddenly, without warning, holding me firmly until he had emptied himself completely. Then he took out his wallet, tossed one bill onto the bench and then another, saying it was extra for doing it that way, without protection.

On my knees beside the trash can, my breasts exposed, I put the money in my wallet. I stood up, adjusted my dress, and crossed the square. My crotch was dripping, not because of the men, but from the sheer excitement of having become, for one night, someone I had never imagined I could be. And the strangest thing of all was that I felt proud. Strangely, free. Happy.

***

I should end this by confessing that early morning was the beginning of something that lasted only a few months, but left me with a strange sense of peace and a few stories I’ll tell someday. I’m not looking for anyone to understand me or applaud me. I just needed to write it down, leave it somewhere, and finally let it go.

Always yours, Carla Belén.