Lesbian

When she approached with a cigarette in hand and tattoos gleaming in the sun, I knew I’d answer her messages even with my husband sleeping beside me.

I went into the booth thinking it was just another routine afternoon. I came out a different woman, with the taste of a kiss that should never have happened.

Carla went into the isolated festival bathroom desperate for a piss and ended up hypnotized by the pink pubic hair of the stranger peeing in front of her.

I got to the pool early in a bikini that left little to the imagination. I wanted to know if the girl with the flirty smile would dare to go further.

I’d been buying her chocolates and roses for months without knowing what to expect. That afternoon, in the taxi home from work, she leaned into my ear and everything changed.

When Inés opened the tent flap, her girlfriend was already on top of another girl, still panting from an orgasm that wasn’t hers.

For two weeks, I'd been reliving that threesome with my sister and my husband. That morning I called her out, never imagining how the day would end.

She had been slipping an intimate ingredient into my dishes for five years, and I’d tasted it every day without knowing. Until that afternoon she dared confess.

I got off the museum ship with my head spinning. That same night, facing the Pacific, a woman I barely knew kissed me like no man had ever kissed me before.

I went out to clear my head one Saturday afternoon. When I looked up from my coffee, she was already sitting across from me, smiling as if she’d known me all her life.

I came back sunburned and my aunt called me to her room to soothe me with cream. When her hands reached my hips, I knew something between us had changed.

I went upstairs thinking I knew the fifteen-year-old girl who no longer existed. The box under her bed made it clear: my daughter was someone else—and so was I.

When he saw the door ajar and recognized his sister inside, against the wall, the last thing he expected was to stand there watching, unable to move.

I came out of the bathroom with my mouth smeared and a new pulse between my legs. She, with my red lipstick on her lips, didn’t know her boyfriend was already watching.

I used to go downstairs to comfort her when she cried. What I didn’t know was that her tears would lead me to her neck, her skin, and the realization that I wanted her differently.

Years had passed since I’d last seen her. When she sat across from me at that bar and placed her hand on my thigh, I knew the night wouldn’t end as my cousin imagined.

Camila was waiting for me seated on the edge of the bed, and I didn’t know where to put my hands. I only knew that night I was going to learn something no man had ever taught me.

She was 20 and had never had a real orgasm. That sticky January night, with half a bottle of rosé, my French cousin decided it was time.

When her fingers brushed mine across the table, I knew that night I was going to recover something my girlfriend had been making me forget little by little.

When she kissed me in front of the car, I knew it wasn’t the alcohol. It was everything she’d kept quiet for ten years finally spilling out of her mouth.