My First Time with a Woman Was Behind the Counter

It was nine-thirty at night and I had seven days left until payday. My account showed less than I needed to get through the month, and I was still wandering the aisles of the corner minimarket with the grocery list in my hand, not quite willing to accept that I was going to have to leave something out.

It was a small place, one of those that stay open late and where there’s never more than one customer at a time. Pasta, oil, coffee, toilet paper, a box of tampons. Things that can’t wait.

When I got to the register with the basket full, I met the cashier’s gaze and for a second the internal monologue about prices just stopped.

Her name was Camila — it said so on the little name tag pinned to her black uniform — and she had to be in her early twenties. Dark skin, glossy, freshly moisturized. Her hair was gathered into two long braids that fell over her shoulders, with those immaculate ends of someone who does her hair patiently in front of the mirror. Long lashes, full lips, a professional smile that never quite fully committed.

—Good evening —she said as she started scanning the items.

—Hi —I answered, and I found myself staring at her hands.

The total appeared on the screen and I knew, before I even reached into my purse, that it wasn’t going to be enough. I counted the bills slowly, wishing multiplying them was an option. I was short by almost four thousand pesos.

—Is there a problem? —she asked.

—I’m short —I said, and my face went hot.

—You can leave something and…

—I can’t leave anything —I cut in—. I need it all.

She shrugged with that tired politeness of someone repeating the same line twenty times a shift, and explained that there was no tab system, that she couldn’t give discounts, that the owner checked the register by video. I believed every word. Even so, I leaned on the counter and lowered my voice.

—Can I propose something to you? —I said.

She tilted her head, waiting. And then, not really knowing why —or maybe knowing perfectly well— I moved a little closer, until my mouth was near her ear, and I whispered exactly what I was thinking.

Camila jerked back as if I’d burned her. Her eyes widened, the professional smile vanished, and for a second I thought she was going to call someone. But she didn’t call anyone. She bit her lower lip, looked toward the door, looked at the cameras, looked at me, and stayed quiet.

—You don’t have to say yes —I added—. If I upset you, I’m sorry. I’ll go.

—Wait.

She said it softly, almost to herself. Then she walked to the door, slid the latch over, turned the sign to “closed,” and told me:

—Come to the back.

***

The stockroom was narrow, with metal shelves loaded with boxes, a wooden table against the wall, and a smell of cardboard, soap, and some cheap air freshener. A fluorescent tube hummed overhead. It wasn’t the kind of setting anyone chooses for any of this.

But we were alone, the front door was locked, and I had crossed a threshold you don’t come back from. Camila leaned against the little table, arms crossed, and looked at me without deciding anything.

—Are you really going to do it? —she asked, not to me, but to the air between us.

—Only if you want to.

She laughed, nervous. A short laugh that escaped without permission.

—I’ve never… —she started, and didn’t finish the sentence.

—Me neither —I said, and it was true. Neither of us really knew what came next.

I started unbuttoning my shirt slowly, looking at the floor. My hands felt a little clumsy, my fingers cold. When I got to the last button, I let the shirt fall onto a box. I took off my pants. Camila didn’t move a muscle, but she was breathing faster. I was left in my bra and panties in front of her, in the middle of the stockroom, and for the first time in a long while I was glad to have the body I have. Big natural breasts, marked by the bra; a short waist; wide hips that my mother curses at every birthday and that I learned to love.

—You’re beautiful —Camila said, her voice breaking.

—Come closer.

She took two steps forward. I took her hands and set them on my hips. They were ice-cold, her fingers trembling.

—Breathe —I asked her.

She did. A long, deep inhale, and as she exhaled I felt her shoulders loosen. I pulled her a little closer and kissed her.

The kiss was awkward at first. As first kisses usually are with someone who doesn’t know whether they’re nervous from wanting it or from fear. Then it settled. Camila’s tongue was soft, sweet, and started keeping pace with me with a urgency that hadn’t been in her eyes a minute earlier. I bit her lower lip, the same one she bit herself, and heard her let out a short breath against my mouth.

—I want to see you —I told her.

She pulled back, put her hands to the hem of her T-shirt, and hesitated for an instant before taking it off. Underneath, she had a simple white cotton bra. She unclasped it in front and let that fall too. Her breasts were smaller than mine, round, nipples dark like the rest of her skin, already hard from the cold air in the stockroom. I moved in and took them in my hands, first carefully, then more firmly, until she threw her head back and bit her lip.

—I can’t believe this —she whispered.

—Believe it —I told her, and I bent down to take one of her nipples into my mouth.

Camila braced herself against the table. I could feel her knees weakening. I sucked one breast and then the other, using my tongue, my teeth very gently, and while I did that I pulled her uniform pants down to her ankles. She finished taking them off, stepping out in two short little steps, and ended up in panties just like me.

I ran my hand over the fabric. She was already wet. Very wet. There was a pale patch in the center of her panties and she let out a moan when I pressed against her pubic mound. She grabbed my wrist, but not to push me away. To guide me.

***

We sat on the floor, on my shirt stretched out like an improvised blanket. Me between her legs, her back against the wall. I pulled her panties down slowly, never taking my eyes off hers, and when I got them off her ankles I tucked them into the pocket of the pants nearby, like a trophy.

—Mine —I said, almost joking.

—Keep them.

I kissed her from the neck to the navel, and from the navel lower still, and when I reached the middle of her legs with my mouth I felt her tense and relax at the same time. She tasted clean, salty, with that sweet note I hadn’t imagined. I started slowly, with the tip of my tongue, drawing circles.

Camila covered her mouth with her forearm so she wouldn’t make noise. Until she couldn’t take it anymore and started pressing my head against her. I got the message. I picked up the pace, slipped in two fingers, curled them upward looking for that spot some people say doesn’t exist, and when I found it I felt her slam her heel into my back and shake all over.

She came with a muffled cry, biting her arm. I kept licking her until she gently pushed me away, laughing, exhausted.

—Stop, stop —she said—. It’s too much.

I sat down beside her. She was sweaty, disheveled, with her braids half undone, and I had never seen her prettier than in that moment.

—Your turn —she added.

I moved back against the table and opened my legs. Camila slid in between them with a new determination, unlike the girl who had opened the door for me ten minutes earlier. She yanked my panties off — she didn’t wait to ask for them — and tucked them into her shoe.

—Me too —she said—. My keepsake.

Then she bent down and kissed the insides of my thighs, barely biting, moving up. When she licked me for the first time, the breath left my lungs. Her tongue was firm, patient, with a steady rhythm that got me to the edge very quickly. And when she started alternating her tongue with her fingers, I knew I was going to come in less than a minute.

I didn’t care.

I came hard, biting my left hand, the other tangled in her braids. I felt every contraction, every throb, and then a soft, sweet emptiness, like when a fire goes out.

Camila rested her head on my hip and stayed there for a while, while I stroked her hair and tried to come back to my body.

***

We got dressed in silence, but with goofy smiles, stealing sideways glances at each other every time one of us put on a piece of clothing. Her panties were still in my pocket. Mine were still in her shoe. Without saying it, we agreed the trade was final.

Before leaving, I ran a hand through my hair, adjusted my purse, and she rang up the total at the register as if nothing had happened.

—Plastic bag, three pesos —she said, the professional smile back on her face, this time with a different glint in her eyes.

—I’m paying cash —I answered—, with what I’ve got.

I gave her what I had. She keyed in the difference as a discount and printed my receipt. The latch on the front door was still locked. She opened it, and while she handed me the bags she slipped a folded slip of paper between my fingers.

—My number —she said—. If you want to have coffee sometime.

I took it without looking and tucked it away next to my heart, where those things go. I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, whispered thanks against her skin, and stepped out into the avenue at night with two heavy bags and a feeling I couldn’t name.

I walked home with Camila’s panties brushing my leg from the pocket of my pants.

That night I texted her. She replied ten minutes later. We agreed to meet on Saturday, at a bar far from the minimarket, far from her boss and his cameras, in a place where I wouldn’t have to ask for discounts for something to happen between us.

I still have her panties. I wear them sometimes, alone, when I remember how she breathed against my neck. I hope she’s wearing mine. Next time I see her, I’m going to ask her.

And I’m going to bring her the change I owe her.