The Teacher Who Responded to My Ad That Afternoon

It started on a Tuesday in May, just as the southern cold was nearly setting in, when my cell phone buzzed on the kitchen table while I was finishing a sandwich I hadn’t even warmed properly. The message came from an unknown number, and the question was simple: how much I charged.

I had had the ad up on a social network for months, one of those that blend in among nail ads and home hairdressers. It said something like “professional massages with a relaxing finish.” Anyone with half a brain understood. I only took men because I felt safer that way, because I controlled the situation better, and because, frankly, they were the ones who paid without haggling. But that message wasn’t from a man.

Marisela—later I learned her name was Marisela, though we started out without names—asked me twice if I’d be willing to give a woman a session. The first answer I typed said no, thanks. I deleted it before sending. The second said yes, but it would cost more. I deleted that one too.

I’m a lesbian. I’m clarifying that because in my line of work it confuses more than one person. My then partner, Daniela, had been with me seven years, and we’d spent the last two of those arguing in whispers so as not to wake the neighbors. She knew what I did for a living. We had talked about it and, in theory, she had accepted it as a temporary solution while the factory where I had worked for a decade stayed closed. In practice, every time I came home, Daniela would turn over in bed and pretend to be asleep.

I’d gone months without touching her. I’d gone months without anyone touching me with real desire, because my clients, however kind they were, wanted something very specific and very quick. When I read Marisela’s message a third time, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time: real curiosity. And a little fear.

I replied with my rate and made it clear it was the first time I’d accepted a woman. She answered with a fourteen-second voice note. She had a low, measured voice, with that cadence of someone used to speaking in front of a classroom. She told me it was also her first time paying for something like this, and that if I was unsure she understood. I wasn’t unsure.

We agreed to meet at her house the following Thursday, at four in the afternoon, while her daughter was in swimming class, which ended at six.

***

I got myself ready slowly. I hadn’t dressed up like that for myself since I turned thirty, and that was already a while ago. I chose a lingerie set I’d kept in the bottom drawer, a wine-colored one I’d never worn because Daniela hated ruffles. Over it I put on a light black dress, no bra, and a pair of thigh-high stockings that stayed up on their own. I did my eyes. I perfumed my neck, the back of my neck, my wrists, and, for reasons I can’t explain, the backs of my knees too.

The address was in a quiet neighborhood, with low houses and vines climbing the fences. Marisela lived in a ground-floor apartment with a small patio and an old fig tree. I rang the bell and waited. Thirty seconds passed. A minute. I started thinking she’d changed her mind and that I’d have to go home with the worst feeling in the world. And then the door opened.

She was shorter than I’d imagined. She must have been in her forties, dark hair with a few gray strands at the temples and large, brown, frightened eyes. She wore a loose sweater and linen pants. She smelled of citrus cologne and something older underneath, like scented soap.

—Come in —she said, stepping aside.

The living room was dim on purpose, with only one lamp on and the curtain drawn. On the coffee table there was an open bottle of wine and two glasses. Also a tray of cheeses neither of us would touch.

—Don’t be upset if I drink slowly —she said as she poured—. I’m not used to this.

—Take all the time you want —I answered.

We talked a while about unimportant things. About her work—she taught literature at a local high school—, about mine—I lied and told her I was studying nursing—, about the heat that week and the fig tree in the patio, which gave huge figs in February. Every so often, Marisela would look at my mouth a second too long and then look away. I let her look.

At one point, the air filled with those tiny bugs that appear around lamps in May. One got into the neckline at my back. I twisted a little and, before thinking twice, asked her for a favor.

—Scratch me? Here, I can’t reach —I said, turning my back to her.

It took her two seconds to understand it was an excuse. I felt her cool hand against my skin, soft, hesitant. Her fingers moved down my spine to where the dress fabric ended. I said nothing. Neither did she.

I turned around without stepping away. We were a handspan apart. She had a small mole above her lip I hadn’t noticed before, and her eyes were wide open, as if waiting for me to decide for both of us. I decided.

I kissed her slowly. Just a brush, so she could pull back if she wanted. She didn’t pull back. I kissed her neck below the ear, and a low moan, almost embarrassed, escaped from somewhere she’d kept shut for a long time. That was the first proof the afternoon wasn’t going to be enough.

—Come —she said after a long while—. Let’s go to the bedroom.

—All right —I answered, and followed her down the narrow hallway.

***

The bedroom had a pale bedspread, a dresser with empty perfume bottles, and a crucifix above the headboard. I didn’t say anything about the crucifix. Marisela closed the door as if the rest of the world were listening, and I liked that. I liked thinking I was her secret.

We kept kissing standing up beside the bed, with that awkwardness of first times: hers, because she had never been with a stranger, and mine, because I had never been with a woman in a transaction. I slipped my hands under her sweater and found warm skin, soft sides, a back with a bra clasp no functional designer had ever solved. I unfastened it by heart.

—Stop —she said suddenly.

I stopped.

—Is it okay if I leave the light on? —she asked, glancing at the bedside lamp—. I want to see you.

—That’s fine —I told her.

She took the dress off over my head carefully, like someone unwrapping a gift. When she saw the wine-colored lingerie, she froze. I smiled at her.

—Do you like it?

She nodded without speaking.

Then I undressed her. She didn’t have a model’s body, and it mattered to her. I could tell by the way she crossed her arms over her stomach the moment she took off the sweater. I opened her arms slowly and kissed her shoulders, her collarbones, her breasts, which were bigger than they had looked and had old pregnancy marks that made her tense. I left a long kiss right there, over the marks, until she loosened up.

We fell onto the bed tangled together. Clothes ended up everywhere. I’d later remember that the underwear showed up the next day under the bedside table, folded carefully, as if Marisela had put it away so no one would see it.

I had her lie face down and ran my hands over her back first. After all, I was being paid to give a massage. I kneaded her shoulders, the base of her neck, her sides. I worked down to her waist, and then a little further. A sound escaped her, half laugh, half sigh.

—You’re good —she murmured into the pillow.

—I haven’t even started yet —I said.

I settled behind her, pressed close, and hugged her from behind. I wrapped one arm around her waist and pressed her against my pussy. I kissed the back of her neck. I bit the edge of her ear slowly. One hand rose to her breasts and the other slid down her hip, along the inside of her thigh, until I found her. She was soaking wet. Wetter than I’d expected from someone so frightened.

—Oh, sorry —she whispered.

—Don’t apologize for that —I whispered into her ear.

I slid two fingers into her without urgency. Marisela tensed for a moment and then gave herself over. I started moving them slowly, searching for the angle, reading what made her hold her breath. When I found it, I repeated it. And again. And again. I pressed her harder against me, murmured things I don’t remember, told her I wanted to feel her, told her to let go. I bit her neck carefully so as not to leave a mark.

Marisela came like that, pinned against my body, biting the pillow so she wouldn’t scream, while I held one breast in my hand and moved my fingers inside her with the other. When it was over, she stayed trembling for a long time. I rested my forehead against the back of her neck and let her shake.

***

I would have fallen asleep right there, pressed to her back, breathing in her apple-scented shampoo, if I weren’t who I am. But I’m insatiable and always have been. Once is never enough. Twice isn’t either.

Marisela turned around, eyes shiny and face flushed, and started apologizing for finishing so quickly. I covered her mouth with a kiss and slid my hand between her legs. She was still hot, swollen, with a slickness that made me lose my mind.

—Stay still —I told her.

I opened her legs with my knee and positioned myself on top, but not the way anyone had taught me in any manual, rather the way my body taught me. I pressed my sex against hers, just enough for them to rub together. The first thrust drew a moan from me, not her. I was more aroused than I had allowed myself to admit.

I moved slowly at first, feeling how our skins caught wetly against each other. Marisela looked up at me from below with her mouth open, amazed that this was possible. I took her hands and placed them on my hips. I set the rhythm. I told her without words: follow me.

I sped up. Every rub sent something up my spine, a current that had nowhere to settle. I leaned back, planted my palms on her thighs, and rode her with my eyes closed. Marisela started moaning louder, forgetting about her daughter, the crucifix, the neighbor upstairs. I forgot about Daniela too. In that room there were only the two of us and the wet sound of our cunts searching for each other.

I came first that time, hard, with a long cry that escaped me without permission. Marisela followed a few seconds later, grabbing my hips with both hands so I wouldn’t pull away. I collapsed on top of her, both of us sticky, both of us breathless.

She stayed silent for a long while, stroking my back with a distracted touch I liked. Then she said:

—Can I ask you to come back?

I laughed against her neck.

—You’d have to pay me again —I told her.

—I’ll pay you whatever you want.

I didn’t answer then. I got up, showered in her bathroom with someone else’s soap, and left before her daughter came back from the pool. At the door, while I was tying my shoes, Marisela took my arm and kissed me again, without the urgency of before, with that sad calm of things that are only just beginning and already know they’re not going to end well.

That was the first of many afternoons. The teacher and I, twice a week, when her daughter went swimming. Daniela kept pretending to sleep. Marisela kept paying. And I, for months, stopped thinking about my clients’ happy endings and started waiting for hers.