The Night I Discovered How Much I Like Being Desired

This happened to me several years ago now, and I still have trouble putting it into words. I never told anyone, not even the friend who was, without knowing it, at the center of that whole night. I’m writing it now because there are things a woman needs to get out, even if it’s only among strangers.

Back then I had just quit my cashier job at a café downtown. That was where I had fallen for a coworker, Tomás, with whom I got along a little too well. There were days when I felt his gaze linger a second too long, when his smile seemed meant only for me. But he had a girlfriend, and the two of them seemed happy, so I swallowed everything and said nothing for months.

When I quit, we stopped seeing each other every day, but we kept writing to each other almost every night. And one message from him, in the early hours of the morning, convinced me it was worth taking a chance. A mutual friend was celebrating his birthday and invited me. I did the selfish math: Tomás’s girlfriend was covering my old shift, so he 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 quite a bit more than I should have. At eight, still not too late, I gathered my courage and asked him to step outside to the patio with me for a moment.

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 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 seems like it has 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 wasted no time. They went straight to my hips, to my ass, as if they knew by heart a road they were only just discovering. I, dizzy and happy, felt my whole body light up. When he suggested we go into a room “because it was cold and I was wearing a short strappy dress,” I nodded without thinking.

***

The room was a kind of makeshift office: a desk, a loveseat, stacks of books and a couple of old photos on the wall. He appeared with a bottle of tequila and two glasses. I poured myself a drink, he poured himself one, we kissed again. Only now there was urgency in him, a hurry that in my drunkenness I mistook for pent-up desire.

His hands roamed over my legs, my thighs, then up over 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 moved the fabric aside, stroked me on the outside, and I clutched the arm of the loveseat because my legs no longer obeyed me.

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

It didn’t last long. He lifted my dress up, yanked it off me and threw it back. The same with my underwear. I was left naked in front of him, and he undressed in a hurry, 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 held on until I couldn’t anymore and threw my head back.

Then he lay down on top of me. He entered me slowly, silencing me with his mouth, and only when he had all of himself 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 loveseat. He followed seconds later, burying his teeth in my neck to muffle his own moan, and stayed inside for a while, as if wanting to leave not even the last drop behind.

***

What came after was what really marked me. He got dressed calmly, offered me a cigarette, poured more tequila. We chatted for a while and it was pleasant, almost tender. I was still naked, curled up, not knowing where my clothes had ended up.

When he stood up, he said it was late, that he had to go. That he’d had a great time. I asked him, my heart racing, 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 the bed. I’m not looking for anything serious with you.

And he left.

I stayed seated on that чужой loveseat, smoking, while rage and disappointment climbed up my throat. It wasn’t the sex that hurt: 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 just to 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. She, practical as always, told me to stop crying over an asshole, that she was meeting some friends at the downtown square before heading to another party, and that I should go with them to forget the bad time.

It seemed like a good idea. I gathered my dress and the short leather jacket —the only thing I found, my underwear had been lost forever in that room—, stumbled out of the party and flagged down a taxi on the avenue.

***

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

It was Wednesday in the early hours of the morning and the square was almost dead. I didn’t see Renata anywhere. I pulled out my phone and only then understood 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 loveseat much longer than I thought. The group had already left.

I sat down on a planter to think. It was cutting cold and I wasn’t dressed for the street: short strappy dress, no bra, no underwear, and a leather jacket I couldn’t even close because it pulled tight across my chest. I didn’t have money for a taxi or patience to walk the many blocks to my house in those shoes. The only way out was to get to the bar district and find a taxi that would let me pay when I got out.

I took out a cigarette to smoke before walking. Almost immediately a man around forty approached me, dressed like an office worker getting off late. Nothing remarkable. In a polite voice he asked if I would sell him a cigarette. I offered him one and a bit of fire, and he started making small talk: the weather, the time, how empty the square was. Despite the dizziness, I answered easily.

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

—Aren’t you working anymore?

—No, I quit that job recently —I answered without 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, not understanding.

—A service?

—Yeah, you know. I saw you earlier and thought you worked here.

Then 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 made it clear that I wasn’t a prostitute.

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

—Thanks, but I’m not. I just had a strange night.

—I understand —he said, and there was a genuine disappointment in his voice.

***

And here comes what it took me years to admit. I’ve always liked feeling desired. Knowing someone looks 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 night in particular, touched something deep in me. I had just been through a man who used me and discarded me like a toy. Now another one was mistaking me for a woman who sells herself, uses herself, and says goodbye. If I’m going to be that for everyone, at least let it be on my terms. Something lit up 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 work something out.

His face lit up. He said he was fine with oral. It seemed harmless enough to 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, watching the street. He asked me to lower my dress so he could see my breasts and lift it up to see the rest. I did. He began massaging my breasts, pinching my nipples carefully.

I liked it, but I was cold and told him so. He unzipped his pants and, when I saw him, I felt a huge rush of excitement and got wet again. The curious thing was that it wasn’t him or what I was about to do; it was the situation itself. Seeing myself there, in the middle of the street, treated like a woman who charges 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 worked over him he shuddered. I moved to the tip, slow kisses, and then took him into my mouth while I worked him with both hands. His breathing quickened. With one hand he held my head and with the other he gripped the car. I, with my free hand, started touching myself.

I was so wet I had to stop for a second and apologize for the seat. He laughed. I kept going until he pulled my hair, pushed me away, and, in a hoarse voice, asked for the full service. I didn’t think about it. I turned around, braced myself on my knees on the seat, my elbows dug in, the dress sliding down my back. He entered all at once; I was so wet there was no resistance. He didn’t take long to finish, his hands gripping my hips, pressing himself against me as if wanting to stay inside.

I cleaned myself with a wet towel I had in my bag, 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 number. He didn’t hesitate: he counted out a few bills and put them in my hand. He thanked me, got in the car and drove off.

***

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

With an unlit cigarette in his hand, he asked for fire. While I was looking for the lighter in my bag, he took the opportunity to ask how much I charged. Those words triggered a huge emotion in me. As if I hadn’t already been with two men that night, my body lit up again. I asked him, smiling, what he wanted. He said only oral. I gave him a random number and he agreed without arguing.

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

I took him in fully, with slow movements, taking him deep. I was leaking again, but I didn’t touch myself; the closeness of the street made me nervous. He held my head with both hands and set the pace without much care, his belly bumping against my forehead with each thrust. He finished all at once, without warning, holding me steady until he emptied himself completely. Then he took out his wallet, tossed me a bill onto the bench and then another, saying it was an extra for doing it like that, without protection.

On my knees, next to the trash bin and with my breasts bare, I put the money into my wallet. I stood up, adjusted my dress, and crossed the square. My cunt was leaking, not from the men, but from the sheer excitement of having become, for one night, someone I had never thought I would be. And the strangest thing of all is that I felt proud. Strangely, free. Happy.

***

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

Always yours, Carla Belén.