Lingerie

Lorena opened the suitcase to help put away the clothes and found the toys. Her new cook was watching from the doorway, not a shred of shame on her face.

When I opened the box and found the black lace and the feathered mask, I thought it was Andrés’s whim. It would be months before I understood who had really chosen it.

We had been inviting him over after every dinner for months. This time we wanted more: two days locked away with him, no clock, no neighbors, no brakes.

I work alone on the night shift and nothing ever happens. Until a red sports car stopped at the pump and out stepped the longest legs I’d ever seen.

I was twenty and thought I understood my desires—until my mother-in-law opened that album and showed me who she had been. That night I turned off the light and understood everything.

Every night I stayed until closing just to watch him move behind the bar. I had no idea the shy boy held the woman who would change my life.

I thought I had the whole house to myself for four days. I didn’t count on him having keys, cameras, and a curiosity he’d never confessed.

For six months I cared for every garment she hung out with me, saying nothing. Until I understood those lace pieces were a message she’d been too afraid to say aloud.

He never dressed up his love with pretty words. He showed it by choosing to be there, looking at me like someone studying a work of art, and telling me the truth without beating around the bush.

I always say I’m shy, but the truth is nothing turns me on more than the possibility that someone will open the door at the worst possible moment.

She crossed her legs in front of me and something didn’t add up. Her voice was sweet, but her hands were too big. It took me days to understand what had stolen my sleep.

I agreed to help them with the faculty contest. I never imagined that in front of that mirror, made up and in that tight dress, I would stop recognizing myself.

At four in the afternoon I was gorgeous, freshly made up in front of the mirror. By ten at night, nothing was left of that perfect girl, and I loved it.

I wore the red dress with nothing underneath. He walked behind me with his phone on, and every stare that lingered on me ended up saved in his gallery.

I went to the office with the plug in and stockings under my clothes, dreaming of what my wife would do when I got home. That night, onstage, everything changed.

Every night before bed, Carla whispered «good night, princess.» It took me months to understand that the word wasn’t a game, but an order.

I handed her a blouse one size too small without telling her why. When I heard her muffled cry from the fitting room, I knew I was going in and I wouldn't come out the same.

She wrote saying she wanted to be my model, my muse. She had no idea that afternoon would teach her desire and the camera are the same thing.

I wore the skirt under my pants, got into the car, and let him decide my name. That night I stopped pretending to be someone I wasn’t.

It started as a joke: putting on the pink collar in exchange for pizza. But when I pressed the button, I stopped being myself. Something else started moving my body from within.