The Night I Went Out to Get Revenge on My Cheating Boyfriend

My name is Carla, and I’m twenty-eight years old. I’m not saying that to show off, but I’m one of those women who draws attention when they walk into a place, and for a long time that mattered more to me than I’d like to admit. I’m slim, I’m five foot eight, I have chestnut hair down to the middle of my back, and honey-colored eyes that, I’ve been told, aren’t easy to forget. That night, though, I didn’t want anyone to remember my face. I wanted just one person to remember it, and for all the worst reasons.

I’m going through old photos on my phone and I come across one from that time. I stare at it for a long while. I’m not the same as I was then; I was more impulsive, more reactive, more willing to hurt myself just to strike back. I’m not here to justify myself. I did something I’m not proud of, and at the same time something that taught me things about myself it took years to fully understand. So I’m going to tell it exactly as it happened, no makeup.

Back then I was seeing Diego. He was handsome, funny, had a certain charm, and the truth is I laughed with him like I did with very few people. The problem was that he disappeared. He’d go two or three days without a word, reply in one-word answers, come up with excuses he didn’t even believe himself. I’d go over it again and again in my head, the kind of overthinking that steals your sleep and leaves you checking conversations at three in the morning.

He had already done it a couple of times before, but that time it was different. I noticed he was too close to a coworker. Too close. And one of his friends, in one of those moments, let something slip. At first I didn’t give it much importance. Then he started again with the not making plans, with vanishing, and then I saw it all clearly, with a clarity that hurt.

I called Sara, my best friend, and told her through tears what was going on. We agreed to go out that very night. While I was talking to her and crying all the tears I needed to cry, another idea was already taking shape in my head, a much less healthy one.

—Shall we go out and clear our heads? —Sara asked me.

—We’re going out for more than just that —I answered.

I started trying on clothes and realized that that night I wasn’t looking to have fun, I was looking to be looked at. I chose something short, tight, and eye-catching. While I was getting ready, Sara called me again and suggested we go to an area near where Diego’s friends usually went out. At first the idea didn’t convince me: if I was going out dressed like that, it wasn’t the plan to do it in front of his crowd. But she insisted.

—Let his friends see you —she said—. Let them tell him. Let him burn with jealousy.

Over the years I’ve learned that those things never lead anywhere good, that the healthiest thing would have been to stay home and cut it off cleanly. But back then I wasn’t that Carla. Back then I was the one who wanted to stir things up, and why lie, also the one who wanted to feel desired for once.

When I finished getting ready, I went downstairs and we took the subway. I was wearing a tight cream-colored miniskirt, pretty short, with very high-heeled knee-high boots and a strapless top that covered just enough. Underneath, stockings that left that strip of skin visible between the hem of the skirt and the lace. I had spent a good while straightening my hair. On the train I noticed the looks right away; some people tried to hide it, others stared without any shame, up and down, for the whole ride. And me, that night, I liked it.

—Let’s go to that bar first and have a drink —I told Sara.

She looked at me, surprised. I’m not one for hard liquor; I’m a beer, a glass of wine, and not much else kind of woman. I ordered one drink, just one, because as soon as I walked in I understood I didn’t need anything else to get what I had come looking for. I was drawing exactly the attention I wanted. We exchanged a few words with some guys and then moved on to a place where we could dance, to see if we ran into Diego’s people.

***

And we did. Sara kept an eye out all night, and at one point she walked up to one of his friends like it was nothing. She came back looking upset. Diego had said he had plans, that he couldn’t go out, one of those vague excuses people only make up when they have something to hide. Not even his friends knew where he was.

That finished setting me off, but not in a good way. I felt like shit. I was falling apart inside. The other times I had preferred not to know, not to look into it; that time I did, and the truth came crashing down on me all at once. I went outside with Sara to get some air and swallow the urge to cry.

—Let’s go home —she said, worried.

I was about to tell her yes when some guys invited us back in and offered to buy us a drink. I let myself go with it. He doesn’t respect me or want me, I thought, and all it takes is for me to move around a little to have half the bar staring at me. Maybe these guys will value me, even if it’s only for one night.

I went in, let them buy me drinks, and, glass after glass, I started feeling more comfortable. I began playing along with the comments, the innuendo, and each step pulled me a little deeper into that situation. I wanted to play, to go further, to end the night anywhere but in my empty bed. Sara noticed. The truth is she behaved like a queen: when she saw where things were heading, she told me she was leaving and left me with one clear sentence.

—You know what you’re doing.

Between dancing, brushing against each other, and exchanged looks, I met a group of guys who knew Diego’s people, so word would get back to him somehow. One of them came straight for me. He wasn’t handsome, not at all; he was more broad than anything, older than me, with an unremarkable face. But there was something rough about him that completely undid me. The way he spoke to me without asking permission, that “come here” that left no room for doubt, turned me on in a way I hadn’t expected. If it hadn’t been for that attitude, I wouldn’t even have noticed him. But between compliments, laughter, and hands that lingered too long, I let myself be carried away. Maybe too much.

***

At one point I went with him to the bathroom. I went in with him without anyone saying anything and, with the door closed, I let go in a way I rarely had. He grabbed my waist and ran his hands all over me, top to bottom, until he couldn’t hold back anymore. He turned me around, set me against the wall, yanked my skirt up, and brushed my clothes aside with his hand. He grabbed me by the hair, crushed me against the cold tiles, and told me in my ear that now I was finally going to feel what it was like. He started thrusting into me again and again, each stroke harder than the last, while I tried to brace myself against the wall. With his other hand he pulled down my top and squeezed my breast without any care, guiding me by the hair however he wanted.

I didn’t last long. That was exactly what I needed: for someone to treat me like that, to make me feel desired to the limit. He didn’t stop until he wanted to, and when he finally did, it was only because he felt like leaving me half-finished. The bathroom, he said, had only been the warm-up.

We straightened our clothes, went back out, and nobody looked at us twice. We stayed close a little longer, and then he told me to come with him, that what had happened before didn’t count. I lowered my head and followed him without asking, knowing what was coming would be different. And it was.

There was no house, no comfortable plan. He took me to a secluded street, dark, with not a soul around, and shoved me against him between two parked cars. “Right here, because that’s what you deserve,” he said, along with a few other things I’d rather not repeat. And that, in that state, drove me wild. I don’t know if it was the situation, the cold, the way he handled me like a doll, but I was completely gone and I liked being gone.

He did whatever he wanted with me. He nearly tore my clothes off; he left me almost naked in the middle of the street and spread me over the hood of one of the cars. He started thrusting as if his life depended on it, with an intensity that raised my temperature with every second. He looked me in the eyes while he fucked me, grabbed my breasts like they were handles to hold me in place and use me however he liked. I tried not to moan, not to make a sound, not to draw anyone’s attention, but inside I had the urge to scream like I hadn’t in ages.

That man, who I wasn’t attracted to at all, fucked me a thousand times better than Diego had in months. He used me in a way Diego never knew how to, and I enjoyed it in a way that scared me a little. When he finished, it all stopped dead. He pulled up his pants and left me there, half naked and shaking.

—I hope you enjoyed it —he said. And he walked off.

I was left alone, catching my breath, exposed in the middle of the night. As best I could, I got dressed and called a taxi. On the ride home I felt a strange mix of dirtiness and satisfaction that, to my surprise, I loved. I had enjoyed myself more than ever. And the best part, the thing I had really been looking for that night, came later, when Diego found out about everything.

I’m not telling it as an accomplishment. When I look at it from here, I see a hurt girl doing the only thing she could think of to stop feeling small. But that night I also discovered a part of myself I didn’t know, one that even today, when I look back through those old photos, makes me keep staring at the screen a little longer than I should.