Lesbian

I heard her closing her suitcases on the other side of the wall and knew she would leave with the dawn. Barefoot and trembling, I crossed the hallway to the ajar door of her room.

She showed up twenty minutes late on purpose so we wouldn’t have time to go to the theater. Only then did I realize she’d already decided how the night would end.

I followed her on social media to get revenge on my ex, but ended up wanting her instead. Months later I saw her in the crowd and knew I wouldn't let her go.

My hands were ice-cold in the boarding lounge, but it wasn’t the weather: in a few hours I’d see her again, and I didn’t know whether I’d run to her or hide.

She booked a routine wax before vacation. What she didn’t expect was the way that woman would look at her when she closed the private room door.

Six days before my wedding, I saw her leave the café. I hadn’t seen her in years, but my body recognized her before I did.

She carried a pistol hidden in her stocking and an impossible mission: get close to the most dangerous woman in the room without desire betraying her too soon.

When she sat at the bar and smiled at me, I thought we’d only share a drink. I never imagined that a few hours later I’d be naked, waiting for her next order.

She led the retreat with the devotion of someone who never breaks a rule. I just wanted a private massage, far from the prayers and the watching eyes.

We’d hated each other at the office for years, but that night, with my fourth margarita in hand, her thumb brushed my bare thigh and everything changed.

When I offered her the job, she smiled and told me it was her turn to ask questions. The first was whether I’d take her to bed after dinner.

I was only serving drinks. She was looking at me from the other side of the bar as if she already knew, before I did, how that night would end.

When I got to the bar, my wife was no longer alone: a stranger was caressing her waist, and the only thing I didn’t want was for her to stop.

Bruno had broken my heart again, but the one waiting for me at that house on the edge of town wasn’t him — it was his mother, in a dress that left nothing to the imagination.

Six years of pretending nothing was happening whenever they brushed against each other. That night, with the city asleep, neither wanted to keep pretending.

I’d gone three months without her hands, without her mouth, without her tits on mine. That night I poured a glass of wine, stripped naked, and decided pleasure didn’t have to wait for her return.

I felt her hand slide up my thigh in the packed subway, and even though I couldn’t move an inch, I didn’t want her to stop.

When she took off her blouse in front of the open window, I knew she wasn’t going to stop even if half the neighborhood was watching. And I didn’t want her to stop either.

I was twenty-two and had never seen another woman naked until that afternoon in the shower, when she took off her underwear as if I weren’t watching.

I went looking for advice from the only woman I trusted, never imagining that afternoon at the country house would teach me everything my body didn’t yet know it could feel.