Strangers

There was a locked door next to Barbara’s room. I opened it out of curiosity, not knowing that by that same afternoon I’d end up tied down inside.

I offered my husband’s old clothes as an excuse. The truth is I’d been fantasizing for months about what would happen if I ever had him close, inside my house.

Half past three in the afternoon, no knickers, and a very clear plan in my head. What I didn’t account for was who would end up speaking to me through the door.

I’m finally writing it down: what turns me on is being the anonymous little faggot of a married man, kneeling without knowing his name and him not knowing mine either. That’s it. Over and over.

For twelve years I’d been fading in silence. That night I put on the dress he hated, left without saying a word, and came back changed.

She caught me watching those videos behind her back. Instead of getting angry, she smiled and asked, “Do you really want another man to fuck me in front of you?”

That night I left my children asleep, dressed like a secretary, and went down to the parking lot trembling. I was going to stand on a corner and wait for customers.

I pulled out my cock pretending to piss under the tree, waiting to see whether that stranger would dare come closer in the park’s dim light.

We agreed to meet through the app in twenty minutes. I never imagined that that same night a stranger would decide what my body did and whom I gave it to.

I’ve got the face of a slut and everyone can tell. In the last carriage, pressed against bodies I don’t know, I let my hands do what my mind has already decided.

The light stayed red, his latest photo stayed on my screen, and my hands had already stopped asking permission. I just had to get home. Or not.

I turn off the light, open the story, and let my hand drift down. In my head there’s always someone in the corner of the room, watching, waiting to come in.

That warm stain on my dress changed everything: for the first time I understood what it meant to desire and be desired, and I never wanted to go back.

They put the blue ribbon around my neck, the only one different from the rest, and I walked down those stairs knowing those six men would discover what I was hiding.

Marcos let me go in first, like a gentleman with a crooked smile. Inside, on some planks, two strangers were looking at me, their hands already at their zippers.

I’d spent weeks imagining myself in women’s clothes. That night I put on the red strap lingerie, took a photo, and waited for someone to text me something forbidden.

I only dress up when I have a date, always in a hotel room, and that night the stranger waiting for me had no idea what he’d find under my dress.

I came back after twenty years to a southern city. That night, in a hotel in the red-light district, two strangers decided I wasn’t sleeping alone.

After midnight I put on the red heels, opened the gate with the remote, and went out for a walk. I only wanted to feel seen. I didn’t expect someone to stop.

He watched me from the armchair while I knelt in front of the stranger I’d picked at the bar. It was my first night being a whore.