For the First Time, No One Could Stop Me

My name is Abril, I’m twenty years old, and for the first time in my life, I’m completely free.

To make sense of what I’m about to tell you, I need to give you a little context. I grew up in a town in Chiapas, in a house far too small for the amount of people living inside it. Parents, brothers, sisters: always someone breathing on the other side of the wall. I never had a room of my own. I shared a bed, I shared clothes, I even shared silence. And that, however harmless it may sound, marks you in a way that’s hard to explain.

Because my whole adolescence was an exercise in restraint. I learned to desire in a low voice, to hide what I felt, to look for the few corners where I could be alone with myself for even five minutes. The bathroom with the shower running to drown out any noise. The laundry room when everyone was asleep. A storage shed at the back of the yard. Stolen places, always with my heart racing at the fear that someone would open the door. One day I’ll tell you about those years in more detail. For now it’s enough to say that I built up a lot, a hell of a lot of heat without ever letting it out.

Everything changed when I was accepted into a university in the capital. I applied to one that was far away, and I won’t lie: half of the decision was to study for a good degree, and the other half was to finally live alone. I think I deserved it after putting up with so much for so long. I got a rented room in a quiet neighborhood, hundreds of kilometers from my family, and the first night I slept there, with the door closed and no one on the other side, I cried a little. Not from sadness. From relief.

Before going on, I’ll describe myself, as tradition dictates. I’m dark-skinned, I’m five foot four, slim, with small breasts. Nothing that draws attention from far away. I don’t consider myself ugly, but I’m not the kind of woman who turns heads when she walks into a place either. The only thing I really like about my body is my ass, which seems to have a life of its own: I’ve lost count of the men who stare at it when I walk by, and over the years I learned to enjoy that attention in silence.

This story is about my first real adventure in the new city, with no supervision, no inherited guilt, no one to answer to.

***

I spent my first few weeks learning how to get around. The subway, the buses, streets that seemed to repeat themselves and then suddenly didn’t. I liked going out with no destination on weekends, walking until I was tired and discovering plazas, markets, tiny cafés. It was a way of marking territory. Every new corner was a small conquest, proof that this place was mine and no one else’s.

One Saturday I ended up at a fair being held at a huge convention center. It turned out to be unbelievably boring: repetitive stalls, packed crowds, too much heat. I left earlier than planned and decided to walk around the area so I wouldn’t waste the afternoon. A few blocks later I found a quiet garden next to a small museum, the kind almost nobody visits. There were stone benches in the shade, a narrow path lined with trees, and an odd silence for such a noisy city.

I sat down on one of the benches to rest. And then, without warning, I started feeling that familiar tingle between my legs. It didn’t come from any particular thought. It arrived on its own, the way it does when I’m relaxed and no one is watching me.

The path was empty. I looked to one side, then the other, toward the museum: not a soul. I was wearing a light skirt, perfect for the heat, and the idea formed before I could argue with myself. I slipped a hand under the fabric, slowly, hardly moving at all, keeping watch on the path with my breath barely contained. My fingers found my underwear already wet. It was a simple cotton panty, and it was soaked in a way that made me smile.

And there, sitting on a public bench in broad daylight, I came up with something I would never have dared do in my old house.

I checked the path again. Nothing. I lifted my hips just a little, hooked my thumbs into the sides of the garment, and pulled it down over my thighs, over my knees, until it fell onto my feet. I picked it up off the ground. It was warm, heavy with moisture, and it had a strong scent, my scent, that hit me full in the face and turned me on even more. I squeezed it in my fist as if it were a secret.

Feeling the cool air directly between my legs, out there where anyone could appear, was a rush I hadn’t expected. My heart was pounding against my ribs. I thought of my years with the shower running, with the shed at the back of the yard, and I almost laughed. Look how far you’ve come, Abril.

That was exactly when a guy turned the corner onto the path and started walking in my direction. Tall, in his twenties, with headphones hanging around his neck. I had only a couple of seconds to decide. And instead of pulling my skirt down and acting proper, I did something I still can’t quite figure out where it came from: I stood up and walked toward him.

He stopped when he saw me coming so purposefully. He looked at me with that face someone makes when they don’t understand what’s happening but can sense that something is happening.

“Do you need something?” he asked.

I didn’t answer. I held out my closed hand, and when I opened it, I let the warm garment fall into his palm. He looked down, took a second to process what he was holding, and when he understood, he lifted his head with a slow, incredulous, delighted smile.

“Wait, is this…?” he managed to say.

But I was already walking away quickly, without looking back, my face burning and a nervous laugh caught in my throat. I heard him say something else, I don’t know what, the wind took the words away. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the electric current running through my whole body, the mix of shame and power I had never felt so purely.

***

The problem was that after that I couldn’t think about anything else. I walked with my thighs clenched, feeling naked under my skirt, every step reminding me of what I had just done. I was so turned on I doubted I’d make it to my room, which was an eternity away by subway.

I hurried, looking for any public bathroom, a plaza, a café, anything. The blocks felt endless. At last I saw a restaurant with a big sign by the entrance listing the restroom fee. I went in almost running. A female employee was arranging napkins near the bar.

“Excuse me, I need to use the bathroom,” I said, and while speaking I fumbled in my bag looking for coins to pay.

“Pay when you leave, no problem,” she told me kindly, and pointed toward the back. “Over there, at the end.”

I thanked her in barely a voice and walked as fast as I could without making the urgency obvious. The bathroom was empty. I went into the last stall, the one in the corner, locked it, and let myself sit down. I didn’t need anything more than my hand between my legs.

I was so close to the edge that it only took a few seconds. I rubbed myself with a desperation bordering on despair, remembering the guy’s face, the weight of the garment in his palm, the sensation of open air against my exposed skin. The orgasm hit me fast and hard, a contraction that bent me in on myself. I pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t cry out, but no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t keep back a muffled moan, and my breathing was so heavy and out of control that I was afraid it might be heard outside.

I stayed still for a couple of minutes, catching my breath, feeling my heart slowly return to its rhythm. Then I cleaned myself up, straightened my clothes, took a deep breath. When I came out of the stall, a woman was washing her hands in front of the mirror. She looked at me through the reflection with a strange expression, her eyebrows slightly raised. I’m sure she had heard me. At another point in my life I would have died of embarrassment. That afternoon I held her gaze for a second and then calmly fixed my hair, as if nothing had happened.

I splashed water on my face, adjusted my skirt, and left. The employee who had let me in was nowhere to be seen, so I crossed the restaurant and walked out without paying. I wasn’t using the bathroom for what you’re supposed to pay for, anyway. I only needed the place.

***

I know it sounds absurd, even childish. A friend I told years later said exactly that to me: “That’s teenage stuff, Abril.” And she’s right, maybe it is. But to me it wasn’t some silly game. It was a revelation. That afternoon, walking back to the subway with my legs still trembling, I understood for the first time, truly understood, that I was free. That I could do absolutely anything I wanted, without hiding, without asking permission, without an ear pressed to the wall.

I spent years holding myself back, desiring in a low voice, stealing minutes in borrowed corners. And suddenly the whole city was my corner, and the whole world had no idea what I was capable of doing when no one was looking. Or when someone was.

And did I ever intend to make the most of that freedom.

I hope you enjoyed this first confession. I have many more saved up, from those years of repression and from the ones that came after, and I promise I’ll keep telling them as I have time. Don’t hesitate to leave me your comments. I love knowing someone is reading me on the other side.