Finally Alone, Without Fear of Being Heard

I got home as evening was falling, after three days in my grandparents’ village. I drove the last two hundred kilometers alone, because my sister Noelia had decided to stay another week with my parents. I couldn’t. Work was waiting for me on Monday, and the truth was I didn’t want to stay either. I wanted to go back home for a reason I didn’t even dare fully admit to myself.

The drive had been hell. The air conditioning had broken down by the second gas station, and I spent the last two hours with the windows down, my hair stuck to the nape of my neck and my blouse plastered to my back with sweat. July shows no mercy in this part of the country. When I finally slid the key into the lock, the only thing I could think about was taking off my clothes.

I left the suitcase in the middle of the hallway with no intention of unpacking it that night. My mother had filled half my luggage with jars: homemade fried tomato sauce, olives, a couple of blood sausages wrapped in aluminum foil. I put it all in the fridge with little enthusiasm, barefoot already on the cool tiles, and stood for a moment in the middle of the kitchen, listening to the silence.

That was the strange part. The silence.

At home there were always four of us. My parents, Noelia and me, crammed into a flat that had felt too small for years. The walls were thin, the doors didn’t quite close, and anybody could hear anything. The only moments of real privacy I knew were in the shower, with the water running to cover everything else, and always with the rush of someone who knew there was someone outside waiting for the bathroom.

But that night there was no one. Not that night, nor the next, nor the one after that. Three whole days with the house all to myself.

I went straight to the bathroom. I turned on the tap, waited for the water to warm up, and stepped under it without thinking about anything else. The first stream over my shoulders drew out a long sigh from me, the kind that comes out on its own when the body has been tense for hours. I watched the water slide down over my breasts, over my belly, and disappear between my legs, and my skin prickled all over despite the heat.

I soaped myself up slowly. I wasn’t in a hurry, and that idea — not being in a hurry — was almost as pleasurable as the water. I ran my soapy hand over my neck, my breasts, my stomach, and caught myself lingering more than necessary in some places. Don’t rush, I thought. No one is going to knock on the door.

I came out of the bathroom with my hair still dripping and didn’t bother drying off properly. I put on only an old cotton T-shirt and a white sporty thong, the kind that isn’t even pretty but feels like a second skin. Nothing else. I walked down the hallway with the lights off and the curtains open, letting the last light of day come in through the windows, and I liked the feeling of the air on my bare legs.

I ate whatever in the kitchen, standing up, picking directly from the jar, no plate or napkin, because I could. Then I flopped onto the sofa with the remote in my hand and put on the movie two friends had recommended to me with those half smiles I now understood.

***

It wasn’t a romantic movie. Or it was, but not the kind you watch with your family. Twenty minutes in, there was a long sex scene, with no prudish cuts, lit by a warm glow that made everything seem closer than it should have. The female lead was straddling a man, moving slowly, and the camera never looked away.

I felt the heat rising from my belly. Not summer heat, something else, more focused, gathering between my legs and tightening my throat. I looked down and saw my nipples already standing out against the thin fabric of the T-shirt. Without thinking too much about it, I let my hand slide down to my thong and began to stroke myself over the fabric, slowly, with the movie still playing in the background.

I held out like that for a while, teasing myself through the cotton, feeling the dampness soak through. But the sofa started to feel too small. The movie had stopped mattering; it was just an excuse now, and I didn’t need excuses anymore that night.

I turned off the TV. The house fell silent again, and this time the silence felt like an invitation.

***

I went to my room and switched on only the little bedside lamp. Across from the wardrobe I have a large full-length mirror, which I normally use to get dressed in a hurry in the mornings. That night I stood in front of it and pulled my T-shirt off over my head.

I’m not saying this to boast; I’m not one of those women who adore themselves in the mirror. But I’d spent months killing myself at the gym three times a week, and I admit I liked what I saw: firm shoulders, a flat stomach, the soft marks of my swimsuit on skin still tanned by the village sun. I stood there for a moment, looking at myself, and the woman in the mirror gave me back a smile that didn’t know me.

My hands started to roam over me. I ran my fingers up my sides, around the outline of my breasts, without touching the nipples yet, circling them like someone making herself wait. My skin reacted to every stroke. When I finally pinched one, a shiver ran straight down my spine and a small, thin moan slipped from my lips.

And then I realized something. I didn’t have to keep quiet.

For years I had learned to hold myself back, to swallow every sound, to move slowly so the bed wouldn’t creak, to always be alert to footsteps in the hallway. That vigilance had become part of my pleasure without my even noticing, like a shadow. But that night there were no footsteps, no thin walls, no doors that didn’t close properly. I could make as much noise as I wanted.

The idea excited me more than the movie had.

I slipped one hand inside my thong. I was soaked, more than I expected, and my fingers slid easily between my lips. I let out my breath all at once. With the other hand I kept kneading one breast, toying with the hardened nipple, while down below I stroked myself slowly, not looking for the center yet, prolonging the moment.

I threw myself onto the bed. The spread was cool against my back and it made me arch. I sank my hand back under the fabric and this time the moan came out in full, unfiltered, filling the room. The sound of my own voice startled me for a second — the old reflex — and then it made me laugh. I was alone. I could scream if I felt like it.

I yanked off the thong with a sharp movement and flung it to the other side of the room without looking where it landed. Completely naked on the bed now, I took my time. I traced my fingers around the contours of my breasts again, slowly, then over my stomach, drawing circles that tightened lower and lower. Every time my palm brushed my nipple, a warm current ran through me from head to toe.

When I finally brought my hand down to my sex, I didn’t want to wait anymore. I began to stroke my clit, swollen and sensitive, first with the tip of one finger and then with two, and the moans started coming one after another, without me asking for them. I brought my fingers to my mouth, tasted that flavor of myself, tangy and warm, and lowered them again, this time with firmer circular motions.

My breathing quickened. My hips moved on their own, seeking my hand, pressing against it. I closed my eyes and let my head fill with images — some from the movie, others invented, others I didn’t even know I had stored away — and all of them mixed with the one certainty that no one was going to interrupt me.

I felt the orgasm approaching from far away, like a wave forming out at sea. My free hand gripped the sheet, my fingers curled tight, and the pleasure hit me all at once, in a rush that made me contract and arch at the same time. I nearly sat up off the bed. My hand stayed trapped between my thighs as a long, deep moan rose from the bottom of my chest and echoed off the empty walls.

I let myself fall onto the mattress, trembling. My legs wouldn’t obey me, and I could feel my heart beating in places I hadn’t known had a pulse. I stayed like that for a good while, naked and open-armed, with a silly smile hanging on my face and my breathing slowly settling back into place.

I thought about the three days ahead of me. About how I could repeat this as many times as I wanted, wherever I wanted, without lowering my voice. In the kitchen, on the sofa, with the movie on or without it, whenever I felt like it. The very thought woke a tingle again between my legs, but the fatigue from the trip won out.

I turned onto my side, one hand still resting between my thighs, and fell asleep with the little lamp still on. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t worry that someone might open the door.