Desire

A yellow Post-it on the little box said just one word: “Play me.” It was two in the morning, and curiosity beat out the night’s accumulated exhaustion.

I had never felt so much from a simple brush of hips. When she settled behind me on the crowded bus, I knew that ride wouldn’t end like the others.

I’d been a widow for fifteen years and sexually asleep. Then that man, nearly twenty years younger, looked at my lips and I knew the morning wouldn’t end in notes.

She lowered her dress's zipper in front of the entryway mirror and, seeing herself surrounded by his arms, knew there was no going back that night.

She descended from the plane of pleasure into a Ruzafa apartment, and when the street’s desire brushed her skin, she knew no loose clothing could contain her.

I asked her to dress to provoke, and on the fourth day she came home with a trembling voice and a story she couldn’t tell me with her clothes on.

I learned early that my body was worth more than any degree. What none of them knew is that I never felt a thing while they paid me.

My husband had spent two decades waiting for me to cross that line. I never imagined I’d do it on an ordinary afternoon, against the wall of my own office.

She cried drunkenly on my shoulder saying nobody wanted her anymore. She had no idea that the very same night, out on the sand, I was going to prove exactly the opposite.

I never thought that seeing another man look at my naked girlfriend, legs spread open on the sand, would be the most arousing thing I’d ever feel.

I let my dress fall on the balcony knowing he was watching from the other side of the glass. And I knew my husband had planned everything.

When she stepped off the plane in those shorts and with that smile, I knew the rule about never touching a friend’s sister would cost me dearly.

When the zipper came undone on her dress, I understood that night in the dressing room would change everything between us—and that I didn’t want it to stop.

No one on that trail could imagine what I was wearing under my clothes, or the wild woman the brush of the air finally woke in me that afternoon.

I changed the song to a slower one, let my fingers travel down my neck, and suddenly the massage was no longer just a massage. Care to imagine it with me?

That morning I didn’t get dressed or dry my tears. I just dialed his number and asked him to come without telling my husband.

He had a meeting and left me alone all afternoon. Bored, I opened a folder on his computer I had no business opening… and couldn’t stop looking.

In front of the mirror, with the dim light and the music low, I discovered that the best company that night was my own: my hands, my vibrator, and a desire that kept growing.

The case had been sitting at the back of the wardrobe for years. I put in the first disc without imagining that what I saw that afternoon would stay with me forever.

The box had been closed at the back of the wardrobe for months. I opened it out of curiosity and, an hour later, I had my phone recording everything my body could feel.