My Cousin Took Me to Her Place After the Party

It had been almost five years since I’d seen Camila. The last image I had of her was as a skinny teenager with braces who laughed at anything. The woman who walked into my uncles’ backyard that afternoon was something else: low heels, a green dress that hugged her waist, her hair tied up, and two kids hanging off her purse.

—Well, look who showed up —she said, setting the gifts down on the long table—. Don’t you remember your favorite cousin?

I smiled more out of habit than because I wanted to. It was my uncles’ fortieth anniversary, and the whole family had crowded into that neighborhood house that smelled of empanadas and barbecue smoke. I didn’t want to be there. A month earlier I’d left an apartment, a partner, and half my everyday life behind, and I’d promised myself I’d get through lunch without it showing too much.

—Of course I remember —I said—. You look different.

—Three births and a divorce —she said, lifting an empty glass—. That’ll do that to anyone.

She laughed like she used to, with that short, nasal burst that took me back to summers at my grandmother’s country place. Camila had always been the funny cousin, the one who’d jump into the pool fully clothed and tell Grandma all the gossip nobody else wanted to tell. The one who said whatever she felt like, no filter and no permission asked.

—And you? —she asked later, while the adults ordered dessert—. I see you’re not posting anything with anyone. Don’t you have some woman around?

The question caught me off guard. She said it softly, almost in confidence, as if she knew the rest of the table wasn’t the place for that conversation.

—It’s complicated —I said, without adding anything else.

She looked at me a second too long. You don’t believe a word I’m saying, I thought. But she didn’t push it. She changed the subject with her usual ease, stole a piece of cake from one of her kids, and laughed when the boy complained.

***

By eleven at night the party was half dismantled. The retired uncles were already in pajamas, the younger kids were asleep on the couches, and my mother had started gathering trays as if the house were hers. Camila came out front with her bag slung over her shoulder.

—Does anyone want to take this lady back to her neighborhood? —she asked into the air, jokingly.

—I will —I said almost without thinking—. It’s on my way.

It wasn’t on my way. I lived on the other side of the bridge and would have had to cross the city to get home. But something in her voice, or maybe the exhaustion of the night, made me offer before I thought it through.

She got into the car and lowered the window. The avenue air carried the smell of wet dirt and smoke from the neighborhood grills. We talked little during the ride. About the kids, about her job at a clinic, about how the area had changed. When I stopped in front of her building, she didn’t open the door right away.

—Want to come up for a while? —she said, looking ahead—. The kids are with their father. The place is empty and I’m not sleepy yet.

I should have said no. I knew I should have said no. But I’d been sleeping little and lying well for a month, and the thought of going back to an apartment that no longer felt like mine weighed more than any caution.

—For a while.

***

The apartment was small and tidy, with that mix of toys and scented candles that separated mothers’ homes have. Camila turned on a floor lamp and dropped her bag on the couch.

—Want a drink?

—Whatever you’ve got.

She came back from the kitchen with a bottle of fernet half gone and a bottle of Coke. She poured two glasses without measuring, like always, and sat across from me on the L-shaped couch. She put on a show neither of us watched. The screen lit the room with a cold blue that reminded me of the school hallway.

—Okay —she said after the second drink—. Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or are you going to keep making that slaughtered-lamb face?

—I don’t have a face.

—You’ve got a face I’ve known since you were ten. Something’s got you down.

I looked at her. She’s my cousin. She’s my cousin Camila, I thought. But the phrase sounded empty, like a label stuck onto a person who no longer fit it. She was thirty-five, with a life made and unmade, two kids in another house that night, and a way of looking at me that belonged to no cousin of mine.

—They left me —I blurted out—. Or maybe I left. I’m not sure.

—How long ago?

—A month and two weeks.

—And you haven’t told anyone.

—No.

She set the glass on the table and moved in closer, not on top of me but close enough that I could smell her perfume and the trace of fernet on her breath. She didn’t say anything for a long while. Then she reached out and rested her hand on my forearm.

—I know you. And I know this isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. But you don’t have to be strong with me.

I stayed still. I didn’t dare move because any movement would push me in one direction or the other. The show kept talking to itself on the TV. A dog barked outside. Inside, there was a silence that had weight.

—Thanks —I murmured.

She came a little closer and hugged me. It was a cousin’s hug at first. The kind you give when someone hears something sad. But it lasted longer than a cousin’s hug lasts. I felt the warmth of her nape under my hand, the pulse in her neck against my thumb, the slow breathing that kept getting faster without asking permission. When she leaned against my chest, her breasts pressed into me through the fabric of her dress and my T-shirt, and I felt them full, heavy, bigger than a cousin’s hug allows you to register without getting burned.

***

When we pulled back just enough, we looked at each other from too close. Her eyes were shining, not from tears, from something else.

—This is wrong —I said.

—I know.

—Seriously, Camila.

—I know. But I don’t want to get up from here.

I kissed her. I don’t know if it was a decision or simply the only thing my body knew how to do at that moment. Her lips were dry from the alcohol and parted slowly. The first kiss was short, almost a question. The second was an answer, with tongue, searching inside my mouth as if she had years of hunger stored up. By the third, one hand was on her waist and the other at the back of her neck, and she had let go of my T-shirt to slip her fingers inside and dig her short nails into my lower back.

—You’re my cousin —I said against her mouth, as if saying it would change anything.

—Yeah.

—We shouldn’t.

—No.

And we kept kissing. I slid my hand down her neckline and squeezed one breast over the dress. Camila gave a short moan into my mouth, a rough sound that escaped her uncontrollably, and she bit my lower lip. I felt her nipple harden through the bra and pinched it between two fingers until she arched her back.

—Fuck, cousin —she murmured—. Don’t do this to me right here on the couch.

She took me by the hand to the bedroom, with the living room lamp still on and the TV mumbling to no one. The room was half lit, with a little lamp on the nightstand and a bedspread thrown over the bed without much enthusiasm. One of the kids’ T-shirts was on the floor, and for a second that made me doubt everything. Camila kicked it under the bed without saying anything and pulled her dress off over her head.

***

She didn’t have the body of the girl I remembered. She had the body of a woman who had given birth three times, with a white scar crossing her lower belly and breasts bigger and softer than in old photos, with dark, wide nipples, marked by pregnancy. And yet it was the most alive body I had seen in a long time. Wide hips, firm legs from running after the kids, freckled shoulders from summers, black panties sunk between full ass cheeks.

—Look at me —she said when I froze.

I looked at her. All of her. I looked at her perfect, sagging breasts, the belly with the vertical line and the scar, the triangle of her panties already stained wet in the middle.

—Don’t get serious.

—I’m not getting serious. It’s just that…

—We’ll think later. Not now.

She pulled off my T-shirt and gently pushed me until I sat on the edge of the bed. She opened my jeans, lowered my boxers just enough, and took my cock out. I’d been hard since the couch. She looked at it for a second, as if calculating something, and then let out that same little nasal laugh from the table.

—Well, look at that —she said—. My little cousin.

She knelt between my legs before I could say anything. She took my dick in her right hand, squeezed it from the base, and ran her tongue all the way from my balls to the tip, slowly, without breaking contact. Then she opened her mouth and swallowed me all at once. I felt the hot throat, I felt the palate, I felt the tongue pressing against the base of my cock while she swallowed and rose back up.

—Camila —I said, voice breaking—. Camila, fuck.

She sucked with her eyes closed, with both hands now, one at the base of my cock and the other on my balls, moving the skin of my foreskin with her mouth, strings of saliva dripping down her chin. Her head moved fast, then slow, then fast again. When she lifted her face to breathe, her lips were red, swollen, shiny.

—It’s been ages since I sucked a dick —she said, still working me with her hand—. I’d forgotten what it was like.

—Come here.

—No, wait.

She lowered her head again and sucked me to the back of her throat three times in a row, gagging and all, barely choking, her nose pressed into my stomach. I put my hand on the back of her neck without squeezing, just to hold the tied-up hair that was coming loose. When I felt like I was about to lose it, I lifted her myself.

—Stop or I’m going to come in your mouth in two seconds.

—Later —she said, with a crooked smile—. Later.

She stood up, peeled off her soaked panties and let them fall to the floor, and sat on top of me with her arms around my neck. She was dripping. I slid two fingers through her cunt and pulled them out shining; she took them to her mouth without taking her eyes off me and sucked them with the same calm she’d used to drink the fernet.

—Holy shit —I muttered.

I kissed her mouth, then her neck, then her shoulder, where she had a big mole I didn’t remember. I bit her earlobe. I grabbed both breasts at once, lifted them, squeezed them until a short moan slipped out of her, and sucked one nipple until it went hard as a stone on my tongue. I pinched the other with my free hand. Camila arched her back and rubbed her wet pussy against my stomach, leaving me a hot trail that reached my navel.

Then the laughter stopped.

I buried my face in her neck while I slid my open hand over her ass, all of it, from waist to crease, squeezing with my fingers. She rose just enough onto her knees, grabbed my cock with her hand, and placed it at the entrance to her cunt. She stayed there a second, looking me in the eyes, the tip barely inside.

—Say it —she said.

—Say what?

—Say it. Tell me what we are.

—Cousins.

—Cousins.

And she let herself fall all the way down. She took me to the hilt in one shot, without breathing, with a long, filthy moan that came from deep inside her, and I felt her cunt close around my cock like a hot, wet fist.

***

We did it slowly at first, almost afraid. Like both of us expected the other to stop and give us the excuse to quit. But neither of us stopped. Camila moved on top of me in slow circles, braced on both hands on my shoulders, mouth open, breasts swaying against my face. I grabbed them, squeezed them, sucked them again and again. I bit one nipple until she told me to go slower and dug her nails into my back.

—Like this —she whispered—. Like this, like this, like this.

When I was fully inside and she had gotten used to me, when her cunt had opened all the way around my cock and started soaking my balls, I thrust up from below with my hips. She whispered something in my ear I couldn’t quite make out, but it sounded like “don’t stop.”

I didn’t stop.

I moved inside her looking her in the eyes, and that was what burned me most: that she didn’t close hers, that she held my gaze as if she wanted to make sure it was me. She knew. I knew. And even so we didn’t look away. I fucked her from below with all my pelvis, setting a rhythm that made her bounce on me, and every time my cock went all the way in, a short, sharp moan slipped out of her that had nothing to do with the nasal laugh at the table.

—Harder —she asked after a while—. I’m not going to break. Fuck me hard, cousin. Fuck me like I’m not your cousin.

I turned her over. I grabbed her by the waist and threw her face-down on the bed, then lifted her ass by the hips. She ended up with her face in the pillow, arms open, back arched, ass spread and cunt open, gleaming in the nightlight’s half-dark. I saw her asshole, small and tight, and also the drops falling from her cunt onto the sheet.

I spat on the slit, ran my thumb over her asshole, pressing just a little, and drove back into her cunt in one go. She screamed into the pillow.

—There —she said, muffled—. There, there, don’t let go.

I took her waist with both hands and pulled her against my pelvis in a motion that was anything but tender. I went all the way in each time, my cock sliding up and down her cunt with a wet, obscene sound that mixed with her broken breathing and the bed creaking against the wall. The little lamp trembled on the table. I grabbed one breast from behind, squeezed it until she moaned louder, and with the other hand I tugged her hair just enough, not hurting her. Her head went back and she lifted her face and laughed that strange laugh, half pleasure, half disbelief.

—I can’t believe this is happening —she said.

—Neither can I.

—I can’t believe you’re fucking me, cousin. I can’t believe it.

—Shut up.

—Fuck me harder and I’ll shut up.

I fucked her harder. I laid one open hand between her shoulder blades and pressed her into the mattress, and drove into her with my whole body, each slam of my pelvis against her ass sounding like a slap. She started trembling around me, her cunt tightening in waves, faster and faster, smaller and smaller. She took one hand down between her legs and touched her clit with two fingers while I fucked her. I could feel them moving against my balls every time I went in.

—I’m going to come —she said, mouth against the pillow—. I’m going to come, cousin, I’m going to come.

—Come.

—Don’t pull out.

—I’m not pulling out.

—Don’t pull out, don’t pull out, don’t pull out.

And we kept going.

When it happened, it happened at the same time as me, which was statistically unlikely and yet seemed like the only possible way to end that night. She came with a long, rough scream muffled by the pillow, and her cunt closed so hard around my cock that I couldn’t hold out two seconds more. I drove in to the hilt and came inside her in two, three, four spurts I felt leave my balls and unload into her depths. Camila moaned each time she felt the pulse, squeezing me from the inside, milking everything out of me. She clamped her thighs around my hips and said my name twice in a row, as if she were writing it down somewhere to remember later.

I stayed still on top of her for a long while, my cock still inside, throbbing, slowly softening. When I finally pulled out, a thick white thread came out with it and ran down her thigh to the sheet. She rolled over onto her back, legs still open, and ran two fingers through her cunt to gather up some of the semen. She sucked them clean while looking at me, not smiling.

—Holy shit —she murmured—. Holy shit, Camila.

—Holy shit —I answered.

***

We stayed there a while without saying anything, stretched across the sheets, the lights still on. Her nape rested against my collarbone. I ran my thumb over her freckled shoulder, mindlessly, the way you caress something when you don’t know what to say. My stomach was wet, her thighs were sticky, and neither of us made a move to go wash up.

—Let’s never tell anyone —she said at last.

—Obviously.

—Seriously. Not even your best friend. Not drunk. Not in therapy.

—Not in therapy.

She laughed softly. Then she went quiet and I knew she was thinking. I was thinking too. I wasn’t thinking I regretted it, not exactly. I was thinking that tomorrow would be Wednesday, that my uncle would call to thank me for having come to the party, that my mother would ask if I got home okay. I was thinking the world was going to keep working as if this hadn’t happened, and that we would have to act normal every time we ran into each other at a birthday or a funeral.

—And now what? —I asked, in a lower voice than I wanted.

—Now you sleep a bit if you want —she said, not moving—. And at six you leave, before the kids come back.

I nodded against her hair.

—And after that?

She sighed.

—After that, I don’t know. Every time we see each other at a family table, we’ll know. Nobody can take that away from us now.

I closed my eyes. She was right. There are some things that happen only once and stay inside like a splinter, and I had just driven one in. And the worst part —or the best, I didn’t know which— was that I wasn’t sure I wanted to pull it out.

Outside, the city kept making its usual noise. Inside, in that room smelling of fernet and perfume and semen and something else I didn’t know how to name, my cousin breathed against my neck as if nothing mattered.

And for a very short while, it didn’t matter to me either.