Lingerie

I was always a man of soccer and conquests, until the first thong brushed my shaved skin and I understood there was no going back.

She came out of the bathroom in lingerie, posed in front of me, and asked how hot she was on a scale of one to ten. I already knew where that night would end.

Every Sunday, when she left, I opened her wardrobe and became someone else in front of the mirror. That afternoon she forgot her keys and came back early.

She said she’d be home late, but when I opened the bathroom door, candlelight revealed her favorite lie: she was naked, waiting for me.

Four men, a thick envelope on the table, and me deciding who I’d call over first. My rule was always the same: I choose, I set the pace, and I leave whenever I feel like it.

In the mirror I stopped being Sebastián. I put on her stockings, her skirt, her perfume, and became the woman nobody knew I carried inside.

I told my parents I’d spend the day with a friend. In reality, I was going to Renata’s, where a wig, a pink cage, and a man who knew what he wanted from me were waiting.

Under my track pants I wore only fishnets and a lace thong. I wasn’t looking for just any doorway: I was looking for the place where they’d treat me like an object.

The dress hugged my body, the stockings brushed me with every step, and when that man held out his hand to dance, I knew I wouldn’t return home the same.

I thought I’d lost the bag containing my most intimate photos. When the doctor messaged me that night, I knew he’d already seen exactly who I was.

I crossed the living room to get a glass of water, forgetting the curtains were still open. On the other side of the glass, his eyes had already found me.

I went in looking for lingerie to please another man and came out discovering that a woman’s hands can make tremble what I had never felt tremble with myself.

I looked at myself in the mirror wearing my wig and translucent dress, and knew that night I would let a stranger do everything I’d imagined for weeks.

I saved his number as “S.1.” Two days to regret it, and not once did I want to: I wanted them to use me again, worse than the first time.

I had spent years imagining it: getting dressed up, putting on my stockings, and giving myself to a man for the first time. That afternoon, in a hotel room, I stopped imagining it.

I was ready from four in the afternoon, soaked and aching, when that short man knocked on my door, never imagining I’d force out his nickname.

I used the gap in the curtain to spy on her, but she caught me in the mirror and, instead of covering herself, began undressing for me again.

I drove at night transformed into another woman and no one knew. One slip at a stop was enough for him to discover who I really was.

When I arrived at the restaurant in my black dress and lace lingerie, I already knew I wouldn’t leave as the faithful wife I pretended to be.

I’d spent a year staring at that toy in the drawer without daring to use it. That night, in my lace nightgown with the padlock locked, I knew I was finally going to let it open me all the way.