In Public

I recognized him on the platform after twenty years, and we boarded the same carriage. By the time we reached the third station, his hand was already where it shouldn’t be.

Half past three in the afternoon, no knickers, and a very clear plan in my head. What I didn’t account for was who would end up speaking to me through the door.

For twelve years I’d been fading in silence. That night I put on the dress he hated, left without saying a word, and came back changed.

They had spent weeks trying to meet. When they finally closed the car door, the parking lot faded away and there were no more excuses to pretend they were only friends.

That night I left my children asleep, dressed like a secretary, and went down to the parking lot trembling. I was going to stand on a corner and wait for customers.

I pulled out my cock pretending to piss under the tree, waiting to see whether that stranger would dare come closer in the park’s dim light.

I had forty minutes of class ahead of me, the camera on and the entire dildo inside me. I only had to keep my face still. That was all.

On the first afternoon, she stepped onto the terrace with the towel hanging by two fingers. Below, there were people. Above, neighboring balconies. And she lit a cigarette without rushing.

We agreed to meet through the app in twenty minutes. I never imagined that that same night a stranger would decide what my body did and whom I gave it to.

I’ve got the face of a slut and everyone can tell. In the last carriage, pressed against bodies I don’t know, I let my hands do what my mind has already decided.

The light stayed red, his latest photo stayed on my screen, and my hands had already stopped asking permission. I just had to get home. Or not.

That warm stain on my dress changed everything: for the first time I understood what it meant to desire and be desired, and I never wanted to go back.

After midnight I put on the red heels, opened the gate with the remote, and went out for a walk. I only wanted to feel seen. I didn’t expect someone to stop.

He sent me the photo while my husband was driving beside him. I didn’t reply, but that image stayed in my head all day.

I arrived at two in the morning with a dry mouth and one idea in my head: that night I wasn’t going to set any limits, no matter what happened among the pavilions.

I walked to the park sucking on a lollipop, my skirt so short the cool air brushed me, knowing anyone who passed by could see me.

I closed the door, kissed him without permission, and knew I wasn’t leaving until I got exactly what I’d come for—with the entire waiting room listening.

Twenty years married, and each hid a secret of their own: him in strangers’ bathrooms, me not yet knowing what the yoga woman was about to awaken in me.

I saw him in the rearview mirror: sporty, with a hard bulge under his Lycra, waiting for my signal. I rolled down the windows and I still don’t know why.

I’d never let so many eyes run over me all at once. And the worst —or the best— part is that my husband enjoyed every second from the bar.