Lingerie

That morning Rodrigo closed his office door and pulled out a small gold bag. Inside was something that would change the office mornings forever.

Lorena had a reputation for liking women. I never paid it any mind until that spring morning when we ended up trapped together.

I had spent months exchanging messages with him, unsure whether I would dare. Then the day came, and I climbed into the taxi with trembling hands and stockings in my backpack.

Twenty years old, zero experience, and a cousin who looked at him as if she knew exactly what was on his mind. The summer was going to be long.

The first time I went in, I didn’t know what happened in the dark. A stranger’s hand brushed my leg and changed everything forever.

An ordinary man discovered that beneath his wife’s clothes lived another version of himself, ready to emerge when lockdown came.

I went wearing a thong and garter stockings under my pants, not knowing if anything would happen. That night, everything did.

When I told him I could call someone to keep him company, he went out to buy cigarettes. Thirty minutes later, Sofía came down the stairs in heels.

The shop was empty and the boy was young. I’d been imagining that exact moment for days, and I had no intention of wasting it.

We slept badly that entire week. We knew what awaited us on Saturday, and that certainty turned every night into an anticipation of something neither of us dared name aloud.

Blindfolded on a hotel bed, you hear someone enter the room. You don't know if it's a man or a woman. You only know you were browsing the app together an hour ago.

I had never gone out dressed for the street before. That Friday I decided it was time: miniskirt, heels, and the year’s most crowded subway car. What happened surpassed anything I had imagined.

I’d known her since I was seventeen. I had told her everything. And that afternoon, while I was zipping up her dress, I realized I wanted to kiss her too.

I never imagined that crossing the threshold of a discreet bar in my wife's underwear would end with me in a hotel room with a stranger.

I put down my suitcase without knowing that one of the wardrobe drawers held something that would change the course of that weekend at my partner’s family home.

We sat facing each other with a martini each. One rule: see, talk to, smell each other. Touching was forbidden. And she had an ice cube in her hand.

I took the elevator in heels and a wig, praying I wouldn’t run into anyone. He opened the door in a robe and called me a slut before I even said hello.

I looked at myself in the mirror wearing her lingerie, heels, and painted lips, and knew I couldn’t stay home. It was two in the morning.

When I came out of the bathroom in heels, stockings, and a red baby doll, his face said it all: I was no longer his best friend’s “daughter,” I was something else.

She only came to drop off some papers. When she sat on the sofa and crossed her legs, I knew the problem was going to be mine, not hers.