When Desire Woke Me After So Long

My life had the rhythm of a metronome: wake up, make breakfast, take the kids to school, do the shopping, come home, clean, cook, help with homework, sleep. And start all over again. I didn’t complain. It was an ordered, quiet life, and I had learned to move through it like someone who knows every corner of their own house by heart.

My husband Roberto was a good man. Hardworking, predictable, no surprises. We’d been married eleven years, and our life in bed still followed more or less the same old script: Saturday nights, lights off, not much noise. He climbed on top, thrust for five or six minutes with heavy breathing, came inside me with a short grunt, and fell asleep. I would lie there staring at the ceiling, my pussy warm and half-awake, and roll onto my side. I had never come with him. In eleven years, not once. At first I pretended, then I stopped even pretending because he never asked. That was how things were.

Until the day Roberto came home for lunch and, almost offhand, mentioned that the woman on the fourth floor had had surgery. He told me while serving the rice, with the same casualness someone uses to comment on the weather or the price of gas.

—Susana, from the fourth —he said—. It’s pretty obvious. The men in the building won’t talk about anything else.

I don’t know why that sentence kept turning over in my head all afternoon. It wasn’t envy. It was something blurrier, more unsettling. I started paying attention to the way men looked at her when she went down to the mailbox. To the way she knew it, and walked differently because she knew it. And for the first time in a long while, I wondered what it felt like to be looked at like that.

I wasn’t any model. I had wide hips, small breasts, a few gray hairs I was still trying to hide. But there was something about me, even if I wasn’t quite sure what. Or maybe I had simply gone so long without looking at myself that I’d stopped seeing it. That night, after my shower, I stood naked in front of the bathroom mirror longer than usual. I touched my tits, small but firm, with dark, slightly long nipples. I ran my hand over my stomach, over my pubic mound, over the lips of my pussy. I was wet just looking at myself. And I realized that for years no one had touched me like that, not even me.

***

I started changing the route of my walks. Nothing dramatic, just small variations. Instead of taking the main avenue, I cut through the park where the neighborhood guys used to gather late in the afternoon. They played soccer on the dirt pitch, or just sat on the benches with their phones, laughing at something I didn’t understand.

At first I glanced at them out of the corner of my eye and kept walking. Then I started slowing down. And one day, without really planning it, I stopped in front of one of them and asked if he and his friends would come by and move some logs that had fallen onto the back garden fence. Roberto couldn’t handle them alone, I said. We’d pay them well.

The guy, who had to be about twenty-five and was named Andrés, gave me a half-smile and said yes, whenever I wanted.

The logs were just an excuse, of course. Though I didn’t really know what the excuse was for. I just wanted to be looked at. I just wanted to exist for a moment outside my metronome.

Andrés started greeting me when we crossed paths. A kiss on the cheek, like everyone else did, but one day his hand lingered a second longer than usual on my back and then brushed, just barely, the top of my thigh. It was so subtle I could have pretended nothing had happened. I got nervous. I smiled at him and kept walking, my panties already wet, feeling the fabric stick between my legs with every step.

Two blocks later I heard his footsteps behind me.

—Wait, let me carry the bag —he said.

He carried it to the corner and that was all. But that night I couldn’t sleep. I slid my hand inside my pajamas with Roberto snoring beside me, and touched my swollen pussy thinking about Andrés’ hand on my thigh, sliding higher, slipping between my lips. I came biting my arm so I wouldn’t wake him, and even with my fingers still soaked I realized it was the first time in months I had come.

***

I avoided him for almost three weeks. I changed routes, went out at different times. But desire, once it wakes up, doesn’t understand schedules or routes.

The opportunity came in a way I hadn’t anticipated. Roberto needed to fix the basement, which had had rotten boards from damp for months. He hired a plumber he trusted, an older man who came with his assistant, and when I saw Andrés come through the door I froze for a moment.

The plumber took care of the work on the ground floor. Andrés went down to the basement to remove the damaged boards. Roberto, since it was Monday, had to leave for work before they were done.

I went down under the pretense of helping carry boxes. The basement smelled of damp earth and old wood. Andrés looked up when he heard me coming down and said nothing for a moment. He just looked at me, his bare torso shining with sweat and his T-shirt hanging off one shoulder.

—If you need anything —I started to say.

—What I need is you —he said, very slowly, without taking his eyes off mine.

I don’t know which part of me made the decision. Maybe it was the same part that had gone weeks without sleeping well, thinking about that hand brushing my thigh in the park. I moved closer. He set the tool down on the floor.

He grabbed the nape of my neck and kissed me hard, shoving his tongue deep into my mouth, and I answered the same way, sucking his tongue as if I’d been waiting for that kiss for years. With his other hand he squeezed one breast over my blouse, then slid his fingers under my bra and pinched my nipple until I moaned into his mouth.

—Shut up —he whispered—. There are people upstairs.

He yanked my pants down to my ankles and made me turn around against the boxes. He ripped my panties off, literally, I heard the seam tear, and shoved two fingers into my pussy without warning. I was so wet they sank all the way in on the first push.

—Fuck, look at you —he murmured behind my ear—. Soaking.

He pulled them out and shoved them back in, moving them inside me, searching for the spot even I didn’t really know how to find. He bit my neck, my back over my blouse. I heard his belt, the zipper. I felt the tip of his cock sliding between my ass cheeks, searching for the entrance to my pussy, and when it found it he drove in all at once.

A cry escaped me. He covered my mouth with his hand.

—Shh. Bite it.

And that’s what I did. I bit the palm of his hand while he fucked me standing up against the basement boxes, with long, slow thrusts at first, then short and fast, each one making my pelvis slam into the cardboard. His cock felt enormous inside me, thick, with a vein that brushed me from the inside and made me clamp my thighs every time he pulled out. He filled me in a way Roberto hadn’t in years, if he ever had at all.

The plumber was two floors above us. The basement door was shut. We could hear metallic bangs on the ground floor, the drill’s growl. Andrés grabbed my hair with one hand, squeezed a breast with the other, and fucked me harder and harder.

—Open wider —he said in my ear—. Spread your legs for me.

I obeyed. I spread my feet as far as my lowered pants allowed, and he buried himself even deeper, hitting something in my core that made me see white spots. I came without warning, squeezing his cock with the walls of my pussy, trembling in his hands, biting his palm so hard I’d see the mark of my teeth on it for weeks.

He didn’t stop. He pulled his cock out, shiny with my juices, turned me around, sat me on top of a tall box and spread my legs again. He bent down and licked my soaked cunt with no gentleness at all, sucking my clit until my knees shook, slipping his tongue between my lips, biting the inside of my thighs. I grabbed his hair and shoved his face against me, shameless, my mouth open in a silent O.

He made me come again with his tongue. Then he stood up, turned my face and shoved his cock into my mouth. It tasted like me, like pussy, like basement sweat. I sucked him all the way to the base, swallowing saliva, choking when he pushed his hips. He held my head with both hands and fucked my mouth slowly, looking down at me.

—You do that so well —he whispered—. You take it so well.

He put me back on my feet, bent me over the boxes again, and this time he shoved it into me from behind with even more fury. He fucked me for what felt like hours, changing the rhythm, pulling all the way out and driving back in, spitting on my ass and using his own saliva as lube. I came a third time before he did, and when he finally came, he pulled out at the last second and unloaded everything across my lower back and ass, hot spurts I could feel sliding downward.

Andrés took me for almost an hour. Every time I thought he was finished, he started again. When I finally climbed the stairs, my legs were weak, my pussy burning, his cum still dripping down the inside of my thigh, my breathing ragged. I went straight to the bathroom, cleaned myself with paper, washed up, changed clothes, hid the torn panties at the bottom of the trash bin. I went back out to the kitchen as if nothing had happened.

The plumber left at noon.

Andrés left without looking me in the eye. But at the door, before leaving, he turned and said:

—Whenever you want, call me.

***

Two weeks later he called.

It was ten in the morning. Roberto had been at work for an hour and the kids were at school. When I opened the door and saw him there, with that usual expression of his, so calm, I almost had to brace myself against the frame.

—I came to see if you needed anything —he said.

I let him in. I made him tea because I didn’t know what else to do with my hands. We sat at the kitchen table as if we were two normal people having tea at ten in the morning.

—The other time was good —he said after a while.

—Yes —I admitted.

—But I want to do it differently. No rush. I want to see you completely, in the light, naked. I want to eat your pussy for an hour if I feel like it.

My breath caught. I lowered my eyes to the cup so he wouldn’t see my face.

—We can’t —I said—. What happened last time was already wrong.

—I know —he replied—. But you want this too.

I didn’t deny it. That’s what did me in.

I told him I was afraid Roberto might show up. That it was complicated. That we shouldn’t. But while I talked, he listened with that calm of his that got on my nerves in a way that was anything but unpleasant. And then, without really knowing how, I mentioned that I couldn’t get pregnant. That I’d had surgery years ago. That he didn’t need to be careful, that he could come inside me.

I don’t know why I said it. Maybe because I wanted him to understand there were fewer obstacles than it seemed. Maybe because some part of me had already made the decision and was just looking for a way to tell him.

He got up from the chair before I finished the sentence.

***

What happened that morning was different from the first time. There was no urgency, no fear of the plumber two floors above. Andrés had time and he used it.

He took my hand, pulled me up from the chair and shoved me against the hallway wall. He lifted my skirt to my waist, ripped my panties off with the same ease as the first time, and bent down right there, in the hallway, his head between my thighs. He licked me slowly, from bottom to top, prying my lips open with his fingers, sucking my clit with his lips wrapped around it, sliding his tongue as deep as he could. I grabbed his head with both hands and rode his face without being able to keep my moans down.

—Keep going —I begged—. Don’t stop, please, don’t stop.

I came against his mouth, trembling, my legs giving out. He held my hips so I wouldn’t fall and kept licking through my orgasm, more softly, until I couldn’t take it and pushed his head away because I was too sensitive and it hurt.

He took me to the living room. He stripped me completely, unhurried, removing each piece of clothing as if opening a gift. When I stood naked in front of him in broad daylight, with the windows open and the sun on my skin, I wanted to cover my breasts with my arms. He held my wrists and pulled them away.

—Let me look at you —he said—. You’re beautiful.

He undressed too. His cock was hard, pointing at his navel, thick and glistening at the tip. I knelt without being asked and took it into my mouth. I sucked him calmly, playing with my tongue around the head, tasting the drop of precum leaking from the tip. I took his balls into my mouth one by one, licked them, swallowed his cock to the base again. Andrés stroked my hair, watched me from above with narrowed eyes, and every now and then let out a low moan.

—That’s it, princess. Eat it like that.

He laid me on my back on the sofa and spread my legs as wide as they would go. He positioned himself between them and slid his cock into me slowly, centimeter by centimeter, looking me in the eyes the whole time. I felt myself being filled, felt every millimeter of his cock opening me up inside, until his balls hit my ass.

—Look at me —he ordered—. Don’t close your eyes.

He took me like that, looking at me, thrusting slowly, pulling almost all the way out and pushing back in with maddening slowness. He squeezed one breast, sucked my nipple, bit my lower lip. I dug my nails into his back, wrapped my legs around his waist, asked for deeper, harder.

He put me on my knees on the sofa, my hands on the backrest, and fucked me from behind. In that position he felt even bigger, crashing against something inside me that made me clench my teeth. He grabbed my hips and pulled me back with every thrust, making our skin slap together with a wet, obscene sound.

—Listen to that —he said—. Listen to how your soaked pussy sounds.

We moved to the floor, onto the rug. He mounted me with his cock buried between my ass cheeks, moving me however he wanted for what felt like an eternity. He pinched my nipples, slapped my ass, put a finger in my mouth for me to suck. He made me come two more times before letting me stop.

Then I got on top. I sat on his cock and rode him slowly, my hands on his chest, moving in circles, feeling, for the first time in my life, in control of the rhythm of a fuck. He looked up at me from below, his hands on my hips, letting me do it.

—Like that, ride me —he murmured—. Take what you need.

And that’s what I did. I took what I needed, rubbed my clit against his pubic bone, came once more, mouth open and without covering my moans because no one could hear me. When I couldn’t take any more, I lay down on top of him and he turned me over, climbed on top, and with short, fast thrusts he finally came inside me, filling me with hot cum, spurts and spurts I could feel pounding inside.

When he finally went still, forehead against my shoulder and breathing ragged, his cock still inside me dripping the last of it out, I felt something I didn’t know how to name. It wasn’t guilt. It wasn’t exactly satisfaction either. It was more like recognition: this is also me, and I had forgotten it.

Andrés stayed another hour. He fucked me once more before leaving, with the previous load still leaking between my legs. When he finished, he kissed my temple, very slowly, as if we’d known each other all our lives.

—I’m free Tuesdays next week —he said.

I nodded without saying anything.

***

What followed was a strange season. On the outside, my life went on as before: breakfast, school, shopping, dinner. Roberto noticed nothing, or if he did, he didn’t say anything. Something started changing with him too, though he didn’t know it. I came to bed with more energy, more initiative. I pulled down his boxers myself, something I had never done. I sucked his cock, which in eleven years I had only done two or three times. I got on top. He chalked it up to who knows what and asked no questions, but he came faster, almost startled by that new woman riding him in his own bed.

With Andrés we saw each other every ten or twelve days. Always in the same window, always with the same urgency disguised as calm. I learned things about myself I hadn’t discovered in eleven years of marriage. I learned, for example, that I liked being looked in the eye while someone fucked me. That I liked dirty talk in my ear while they were taking me. That I liked swallowing cum, feeling it hot and thick going down my throat. That I even liked being slapped on the ass when I was on all fours. Things no one had asked me in eleven years and I had never dared ask myself.

I also learned that desire, once it truly catches fire, is hard to manage. I started noticing other men in the street, at the supermarket, in the doctor’s waiting room. Their arms, the bulge in their pants, their hands. I did nothing, I only looked. But even my looking was new, charged with something it hadn’t had before.

One Tuesday, while I waited for Andrés, I caught myself thinking about what it would be like if it weren’t just him. If there were two. If it were a stranger. The thought scared me a little and drenched my panties a little more, in proportions I couldn’t quite calculate.

What was I becoming?

I didn’t have a clear answer. I only knew that something in me had woken up after many years asleep, and that I had no interest whatsoever in letting it go back to sleep.

***

There are things you can’t tell anyone. Not your friends, if you even have any. Not your sister. Not, of course, your husband. So I kept it inside me, like a secret that weighed just enough to remind you that you were alive.

Andrés and I kept seeing each other for a few more months, until he found work in another city and the visits grew farther apart until they disappeared. There was no drama, no special goodbye. One day he stopped coming and I understood that part was over.

But what had awakened in me didn’t leave with him. It was still there, between my stomach and my pussy, waiting. Every morning I took the kids to school and walked back through the park, I wondered what would come next. Who the next one would be. Because that there would be a next one, I no longer had any doubt.

I still don’t know for certain. But I do know I no longer move to the rhythm of that metronome. Something has fallen out of sync, and I have no intention of setting it right again.