Three on the Rooftop: A Retiree Who’s Still Hungry

Click. The lock startles me and the pen rolls across the half-finished crossword. Nine letters: “person who sees everything in black.” Life’s ironies, considering how little that fits me.

The key turns three times in the lock, always three, with that old-movie squeak. I hold my breath, even though I know perfectly well who’s on the other side.

—I’m home! —Laurent’s voice booms from the hall—. It’s freezing in here!

I get up from the sofa and a groan slips out of me. My back protests. The air-conditioning purrs at full blast because July in Málaga does not forgive, and I need the cool air to heal this damn spinning injury that has kept me away from classes.

I miss sweating like a maniac in aerobics, mastering the choreography like a goddess. But giving up isn’t in my vocabulary. I plant myself in front of the living-room mirror and smile, pleased with what I see: the sleeveless top hugging arms I’ve spent hundreds of hours building with weights, the flat stomach many thirty-somethings would envy, the strong legs that are my pride.

Not bad for sixty-two, I tell myself, running a hand through my mane of white hair shot through with silver. The wrinkles around my green eyes tell stories of laughter, not complaints. Yes, Amparo, you’ve never looked better.

Laurent appears with his travel bag, the one I call “Cereza’s secret wardrobe.” He walks with a broken little sway that gives him away: his crotch is raw.

—How was the date, darling? —I ask, kissing him.

—Educational —he replies, setting the bag down—. Very educational.

I follow him into the laundry room, where he carefully takes out the white cherry-print dress and the red wig that transform my husband, a retired philosophy professor, into the splendid Cereza.

—Did you get yourself an enthusiast? —I tease.

—Let’s say he didn’t know how to rein in his enthusiasm —he laughs, loading the washer with the meticulousness of someone preparing an experiment—. I think he’d had something. He never stopped.

—Go take a shower —I suggest, giving his ass a slap that makes him jump—. I’ll finish here.

***

I pour two glasses of ice-cold white wine and carry them out to the terrace. We live in a penthouse and nobody can see us, so I roam around in panties without the slightest shame. Moisture fogs the glass in seconds. Málaga summer nights are perfect for talking, and I have a feeling tonight there will be plenty to talk about.

While Laurent showers, my mind drifts to the subject that’s been on it for days: Damián, our neighbor in 4C. Sixty years old and a presence that fills any room without opening his mouth. Every time we run into each other in the elevator, my heart flips like I’m sixteen. Dark hair flecked with gray, a trimmed beard, those suits with his shirt open just enough... a sin with legs, as my mother would have said.

And after five years of drought, since Laurent’s spark downstairs went out, even the fruit seller looks suggestive to me. But Damián is something else. My friend Remedios swears that at our age you don’t get hungry anymore. Remedios, darling, what you don’t have is a neighbor like mine.

I remember yesterday’s elevator ride. I’d come from the gym, sweaty and with my hair a mess, and he looked at me like I was the most interesting woman in the building.

—Rough day? —he asked, with that smile that wrinkles his eyes in a way that should be illegal.

—My romance with sweat continues —I replied, letting the towel slide “by accident” down toward my cleavage.

—Some of us improve with age, like good wine —he said, following the movement of the fabric without even trying to hide it—. And you look like an excellent vintage.

When the elevator opened, his hand brushed the small of my back, a brief, electric gesture.

—I’m always open to invitations —he murmured before saying goodbye.

The sound of the shower stopping brings me back to the present. Laurent appears with wet hair and his blue robe, moving with the delicacy of someone who’s had an intense day. He sinks into the chair opposite me and, between bursts of laughter, tells me the details of his date: the imposing stranger who got him on his knees the moment he closed the door, who never rested between one attack and the next, who whispered sailor filth in his ear.

—And the most surprising thing —he concludes, cheeks flushed— is that, despite his brutality, I came twice.

—I don’t believe you! —I exclaim, genuinely impressed.

He sighs and sets down his glass.

—I think I’ve had enough of certain things for today —he says in his French accent, which deepens when he relaxes—. Right now I feel like something more delicate. A subtler dish.

His gray eyes look at me with an intensity I know too well. My body responds before my mind does.

—Here? —I ask, even though I know nobody can see us.

—Why not? —he answers, dropping to his knees before me with the reverence of someone about to read a sacred text.

His long fingers tug my panties down with deliberate slowness. He kisses the inside of my thigh, climbs higher, and when his mouth finds the exact spot, I lose the thread of every thought. He alternates the most exquisite softness with the most precise pressure, and the contrast between the night breeze and the wet heat of his tongue becomes unbearable.

—Don’t stop... please —I gasp, my fingers tangled in his hair.

If this man knows how to use anything, it’s that educated tongue for the most indecent pleasures.

His hands hold my hips right where they need to be. Pleasure explodes, tearing a moan from me that can surely be heard throughout the building, my thighs closing over his head and my whole body tensing before melting like hot wax.

When I open my eyes, Laurent wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks at me with almost childish pride.

—All that gym work is going to end up suffocating me —he jokes, massaging his neck—. Though I can’t think of a better way to die.

He comes back with the glasses newly poured and sits opposite me, now more serious.

—While I was with that man, I thought of something —he says—. How much I’d like to share Cereza. With you and someone else.

My breath catches.

—A threesome? —I ask outright.

—But not just any one —he nods, somewhere between shyness and hope—. One where I can be Cereza, where you’re there, watching me, taking part.

I should be scandalized. Instead, a wave of excitement washes through me. I burst out laughing and lean over to hug him.

—You know what’s funniest? I’ve been thinking about Damián for days.

—The one from 4C? —He pulls back to look at me, eyes wide.

—The very same. There’s something in the way he looks at me that tells me he’d be... open to experiences.

A slow smile crosses his face.

—And how do you propose we approach Mr. 4C? We can’t ring his bell and just say, “Hello, would you like to sleep with us? By the way, I’ll be dressed as a woman.”

We burst out laughing at the image. Two retirees plotting mischief like people in their twenties.

—Leave it to me —I say, with a confidence that surprises me—. I have an idea.

***

I have no idea, but I pretend I do. I spend the night wide awake, staring at the ceiling while the clock marches from 12:47 to 3:07, turning over how the hell I’m going to approach Damián without seeming like a desperate old woman. Beside me, Laurent sleeps with the serenity of a saint after a day of miracles.

The next morning I show up at the nearly empty gym. I’ve spent weeks timing Damián’s routines like an amateur spy, so I settle onto the rowing machine opposite the entrance, right at the hour I know he’ll appear.

And he does. Black T-shirt, strong thighs, that salt-and-pepper beard like a lone wolf.

—Up early even on Saturday —he greets me, approaching.

—The body doesn’t allow truces —I answer, intensifying my movement so the exercise will define my arms.

He sits on the machine next to mine, so close I can smell his woody, spicy cologne. We row in silence until he breaks it.

—There’s something about you and your husband that intrigues me —he says—. You seem so free. So in sync. Like you share a secret that keeps you young.

I let a drop of sweat slide down my neck to my cleavage.

—Maybe the secret is not having secrets —I reply, looking him in the eyes—. Or having them, but together. At our age, life is too short not to explore what makes us happy.

He stops rowing. The tension between us is thick as hot honey.

—And what exactly makes you happy? —he asks, in a lower voice.

Now or never. I take a deep breath and leap into the void.

—We’d like to invite you to dinner tonight. At nine. To discover it together. Dessert included... a very special one.

His pupils dilate. He runs his tongue over his lips.

—And does that dessert include both hosts? —he asks with a boldness that leaves me breathless.

—Especially the host —I answer, thinking of Cereza—. He has talents that would surprise you.

He stands and offers me his hand to help me up, old-fashioned and charming.

—It would be rude to refuse such a succulent invitation —he murmurs in my ear—. I’ll bring wine.

I did it. My God, I really did it.

***

The hours that follow pass in a frenzy. I cook a sirloin with red wine sauce while Laurent cleans, puts on music —Chet Baker whispering from the speakers— and disappears into the bathroom with his special toiletry bag at exactly seven o’clock.

I settle on a black dress, sexy without being vulgar, and highlight my green eyes with the eyeliner Remedios swears takes ten years off me. By eight-thirty I’m ready. Only Cereza is left.

When I hear the click of heels in the hallway, I turn, and the sight takes my breath away. Cereza looks spectacular: the white cherry-print dress hugging his figure, the red wig in soft waves, the makeup so perfect it’s hard to recognize the philosophy professor beneath those pink lips.

—Do you think he’ll like me? —he asks, and for an instant I see the insecure man beneath the makeup.

—If he doesn’t like you, then he’s clinically dead —I answer.

We agree on a plan: he’ll start out in street clothes, face bare and glasses on, loose clothing over the dress. When the time comes, he’ll excuse himself and return as Cereza. He’s barely finished squeezing himself into a pair of baggy trousers when the doorbell rings.

I open the door and there’s Damián, more handsome than I remembered, in a tailored navy suit, a bottle of wine and a bouquet of white lilies in hand.

—You look dazzling —he says, and his deep voice runs down my spine.

I lead him into the living room and introduce him to Laurent, who greets him with a certain stiffness because of the extra clothing. There’s a strange spark between them, a familiarity that unsettles me. We pour wine, conversation flows with surprising ease, and after the second glass Laurent excuses himself to “check something in the kitchen.”

Left alone, Damián’s knee brushes mine.

—Amparo —he says, lowering his voice—, before the night goes any further, I have to confess something. I already know Cereza.

The world stops for a second.

—What?

—We’ve crossed paths in the landing before, when she was coming back from her outings —he explains calmly—. I didn’t say anything at the gym because I didn’t know whether you were in on it. I didn’t want to cause trouble.

I let out a laugh that surprises him.

—Trouble? I’m the one who helped him choose that cherry dress.

The tension dissolves into shared laughter. Damián intertwines his fingers with mine.

—In that case, tonight is going to be even more interesting than I expected.

The click of heels in the hallway breaks the moment. Cereza appears in the doorway, now in all his splendor, and Damián stands to kiss the back of his hand with a gallantry that leaves me breathless.

—I must say that dress suits you even better up close —he tells him.

Cereza lets out a little laugh of pure coquettishness. The tension in the air is an intoxicating mix of desire and possibility. The three of us know we’re on the edge of something extraordinary.

***

Dinner is a success, but none of us are thinking about the food anymore. When the glasses are half empty, I suggest the inevitable.

—What if we get more comfortable? This Málaga heat is merciless.

Damián lets out a laugh that vibrates through me and offers each of us an arm on the way to the bedroom, where a bottle of champagne waits in the ice bucket beside three glasses.

I slip out of the black dress, letting it fall to my feet. The cool air raises goosebumps on my skin, or maybe it’s the looks sweeping over my body, barely covered by the black lingerie I bought for the occasion.

—You’re a goddess —Cereza murmurs.

—Your turn —I urge her.

She takes off her dress and reveals a white lace set with small embroidered cherries. The contrast between his shoulders and the delicate lace is strangely harmonious. We both turn to Damián, who unbuttons his shirt with deliberate slowness, revealing a surprisingly firm torso and silver chest hair.

When he lowers his trousers, the surprise draws an exclamation from us: instead of sober boxers, he’s wearing a striking lime-green brief.

—At our age, what’s the point of being predictable? —he laughs—. Besides, green is the color of hope.

Cereza steps closer, her heels marking a seductive rhythm, and slides a hand over Damián’s abdomen until it comes to rest over the taut fabric. She caresses him with her red nails while brushing his neck with her lips.

—And there’s certainly reason for hope —she murmurs.

Damián closes his eyes and lets out a groan, but his eyes come back to me, asking permission. I answer with a smile: tonight there are no rules, only shared desire.

We toast with the champagne —to second chances, to first times at our age— and then Damián sets down his glass and draws Cereza in by the waist. He kisses him without hesitation, a hungry, determined kiss, while his free hand reaches toward me.

My God. I never thought seeing my husband kissing another man would do this to me.

I move toward them as if in a trance. Damián breaks the kiss and turns to me.

—Your turn —he says, and his lips come down on mine.

The taste of Cereza is still on his mouth, mixed with champagne. His kiss is more dominant than Laurent’s, more demanding, as if he wants to mark me. I feel Cereza’s hand at the nape of my neck, tangling in my hair, holding me.

The three of us fall onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and sighs. If my bingo friends could see me now...

Cereza settles off to one side, his eyes bright with excitement.

—He’s been in drought for five years, as far as I know —he tells Damián, with that wickedness that’s so him—. I’d love to see you make him feel everything I can’t give him anymore.

—Laurent! —I protest, red as a tomato.

But Damián doesn’t flinch. On the contrary, his eyes blaze.

—I’ve wanted you for months —he confesses—. Since the first time I saw you leaving the gym with that smile that looked like a challenge.

Months? My heart hammers against my ribs.

—Me too —I admit—. I’ve imagined you like this more times than I’d confess.

Damián positions himself over me, strong arms on either side of my head. He removes my panties with a slowness that makes me bite my lip to keep from begging, frees himself from the lime-green brief and, when I see him, an involuntary moan escapes me.

—Look at me —he asks.

I open my eyes and, slowly, with a deliberation that drives me insane, he begins to enter me. The delicious stretch, the gradual fullness, the pleasure mixed with a point of pain that only intensifies it.

—You’re so hot —he murmurs, tense from holding back.

Cereza strokes my hair.

—You’re beautiful like this —he whispers—. Open, surrendering.

Damián starts to move: first slow thrusts, learning the map of my body, then a rhythm that makes me lose my mind. Cereza watches, his hand brushing now and then over my face, my chest, Damián’s shoulder, as if blessing us.

—Harder —I beg, with a voice I don’t recognize—. Please.

—If I go harder, I won’t last much longer —he warns.

—It doesn’t matter. Don’t stop.

The orgasm catches me by surprise, building from somewhere deep and expanding like a supernova. I scream without caring about the whole building, my body arching beneath his. I feel him tense, his breath break.

—Inside —I manage to say—. I want to feel you.

With a growl torn from his deepest place, Damián drives in one last time and lets go. The expression on his face in that moment of total surrender is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen: vulnerable and fierce at once.

When he collapses over me, sweaty and tangled, Cereza comes closer and covers us with light kisses on the shoulders, the cheeks, the forehead.

—Thank you —Damián says, his voice rough—. For inviting me to this. For sharing something so special.

Cereza smiles, that smile that is pure Laurent in its warmth.

—The pleasure is ours —he answers, kissing his forehead.

I remain between the two of them, looking at the ceiling that stole my sleep last night, and I think that maybe life hasn’t just not ended with me: maybe, at sixty-two, it’s only just beginning.