The Experiment Mateo Proposed to Me That Night

The conversation had been circling the same thing for almost two hours: the theory of desire, the difference between what one imagines and what one would actually be capable of doing. Mateo sipped his gin and tonic slowly and watched me the way someone waits for the other person to finish reading a book so they can discuss it.

—All right, what you’re saying makes sense —he murmured at last, setting the glass on the table—, but all this is still theory. And theory is boring.

—So what do you propose? That we stop talking?

—That we move on to another field.

I smiled with some suspicion. We’d been together eight months, and I knew that look of his: the one that meant he’d already formed the idea before opening his mouth.

—Spit it out.

—I want you to go to the bar and order a drink.

—That’s the proposal?

—Let me finish. I want you to go to the bar, but before that you unbutton a couple of buttons and hike your skirt up a little. Not much. Just enough. And you order something. I’ll stay here, keeping watch. If something happens that you don’t like, you give me a signal, I’ll come over and introduce myself as your boyfriend. But if not, we observe what happens.

What happens. As if this were a lab experiment.

I looked at him for a long while. Mateo had the strange ability to suggest bizarre things as if they were obvious. It annoyed me and intrigued me at the same time; that had always been our dynamic.

—Why are you interested in something happening?

—Because for years you’ve been telling me no man ever hits on you. And for years I’ve been telling you that’s a lie. I want you to see it. To feel the difference between what happens when you hide and what happens when you don’t.

I drank what was left of my wine. I didn’t answer right away. I looked around. The bar was packed; it was Friday and people were clustered at the marble counter waiting for the guy in suspenders to make their drinks. It smelled of perfume and cut lemons.

—I’ll do it —I said, surprising myself.

I unbuttoned three buttons, not two. I didn’t touch the skirt; I was embarrassed to do it in front of him. I stood up. I felt my legs were neither heavy nor fully mine.

***

I walked to the bar staring straight ahead. I didn’t want to count how many men were there, or how many turned their heads. I sat on one of the high stools, crossed my legs, and the skirt rode up a few centimeters on its own. I didn’t pull it down. That was the exact moment I understood I really was doing it.

—A Cosmopolitan, please.

The bartender nodded without looking at me too much. He was professional. The others weren’t.

The first one appeared in less than a minute. Early thirties, blue shirt, a smile that was too well-practiced.

—Sorry, I didn’t quite catch what you ordered. I wanted to get the same thing.

—A Cosmopolitan —I replied, holding his gaze just long enough for him to understand that I’d heard him and was saying it anyway.

—You look like you know how to pick drinks.

—And you look like you’d try anything.

He laughed. He wasn’t expecting that answer. Neither was I expecting to give it to myself. I felt something strange in my chest, a mix of adrenaline and embarrassment, and underneath it, something else. Something I didn’t want to name yet.

The second one came from the other side while the first got distracted with his friends. Younger, dark hair, a cologne that smelled too strong.

—I didn’t mean to interrupt, but I’ve been wondering for a while what color your eyes are.

—Green.

—That’s what I thought. That’s why I wanted to make sure.

I laughed despite myself. It was a bad line, but he said it with so much confidence it almost worked. I glanced out of the corner of my eye toward the table where Mateo was sitting. He didn’t give me any signal. He was drinking, calm, watching me like someone watching a game on television.

The bartender set my drink down in front of me. The first man turned back toward me just as the second was asking my name.

—Camila.

—Beautiful name.

—Shall we toast? —the first one said, lifting his glass, which had just arrived too.

—And me? —the second added.

I froze for a moment. I had one man on each side, both smiling, both expecting something from me, and neither giving any sign of leaving. The three of us toasted. The glass clinked three times. Something inside me rang at the same time, though I couldn’t say what.

When I set the glass down, a hand rested on my shoulder. The first one’s. Almost instantly, the second wrapped an arm around my waist, as if they’d rehearsed the gesture together.

—Wait —I said, trying to make my voice sound firm—. This is going too fast.

I managed to shrug the first one off, but when I turned, I found myself directly in the second man’s gaze, our faces closer than I expected.

—I knew you’d turn toward me —he murmured.

And then Mateo appeared.

***

—Hi, darling —I said with a smile that was meant to sound relieved and came out sounding more like a plea—. Look, let me introduce you. They’ve been very nice to me.

I expected Mateo to take me by the arm, pay for the drink, and get me out of there. Instead, he smiled at the two guys as if they were old acquaintances.

—Nice to meet you. Do you want to move to a table?

I looked at him in disbelief. He didn’t look back at me.

The four of us sat at a table in the back. Me in the middle, almost without realizing it. The first one on my left, the second on my right, Mateo across from me. The second one stood up to get drinks. Mateo ordered a beer with a naturalness I didn’t understand.

—Mateo —I whispered when the other one walked away—, this is getting out of hand.

—Relax. We’re in a public place. Nothing’s going to happen that you don’t want.

The first one slid his thigh against mine under the table. I felt the heat of it through the skirt. The second came back and, as he sat down, his hand brushed my back as if by accident. But the touch lasted too long to be casual.

Mateo stood up, moved behind me, and placed his hands on my neck. He started massaging me.

—Relax, Camila. Enjoy it. If you want to stop, you stop.

His fingers were warm. I knew that pressure, that exact way of sinking his thumbs just under the nape of my neck. I closed my eyes for an instant. When I opened them, the first man’s hand was already on my waist, under my blouse, touching my bare skin. The second one traced circles on the inside of my knee, slowly moving upward.

This shouldn’t be happening. This can’t be happening.

But it was happening. And my body, absolute traitor, wasn’t rebelling the way I expected. It stayed still. Waiting.

—Mateo —I said very softly—, how far do you want this to go?

—As far as you decide. I’m not deciding for you.

He said it in my ear without stopping the massage. I could feel the first man’s hand already above my navel, climbing, lifting the fabric of my blouse just enough to expose the damp, warm skin of my stomach. The second one had reached the hem of my skirt and was slipping underneath, slowly, as if asking permission without asking. Nobody at the table was talking. All you could hear was the low thrum of the place and my own breathing, which was getting louder than everything else.

I felt the second man’s fingers brush the fabric of my underwear. Just a touch. Just a suggestion. But it was enough to make my back arch half an inch, without my permission. I bit my lip. The touch rose a degree when the first one, from the other side, slid his palm down my flank and took one breast shamelessly, covering it entirely, squeezing the nipple through my blouse and bra until I let out a breath through my nose.

—Look at her —the first one murmured with a crooked smile—. She’s already trembling.

—And we’ve barely started touching her —the second one said, and his hand sank a little deeper between my thighs, pressing the fabric against the heat already burning down there.

Mateo gently squeezed my neck with one hand and with the other began to run over my bare shoulders. When he leaned down, his mouth brushed my ear, and his voice cut through me with obscene calm.

—Tell me if you want me to stop.

I didn’t answer. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I could already feel the wetness spreading through my crotch with humiliating speed. The second man touched me over my underwear, not fully slipping in, pressing only lightly, as if he wanted to measure the exact edge of my desire. The first one, meanwhile, had unbuttoned one more button on my blouse and was kissing my neck with his mouth open, wet, leaving a trail of saliva that made me shiver.

Three men. Three pairs of hands. And me in the middle, eyes closed, feeling my body receive every stimulus and give back something I didn’t want to give.

—She’s soaking through her clothes, fuck —the second one said, and I could tell he was smiling as he said it because his voice vibrated right against my side.

—Leave her —Mateo replied, firm, behind me—. I want to see her like this.

My breathing was pure disobedience now. The first man slid his hand down my stomach to the waistband of my skirt, slipped it inside, and worked two fingers to the line of my underwear. He didn’t push right away. First he stroked the curve of my pelvis, then followed the edge of the fabric until he found the softest, hottest spot. When he finally touched me where I was truly wet, a sigh escaped him.

—Damn —he said—. You really were waiting, huh?

The second one leaned in so close his mouth almost brushed mine. He didn’t kiss me; he spoke over my lips.

—Do you like being looked at like this? Do you like being touched in front of your boyfriend?

Something lashed through my chest. I wanted to say no. I wanted to say this was madness. But my body betrayed me again: I opened my legs wider and gave them room. My skirt barely covered anything anymore; it had ridden up over my lap, wrinkled, pushed by hands that never stopped looking for me.

—Enough —I whispered.

Nobody heard me. Or they pretended not to.

The first one slipped his fingers under my underwear and stroked slowly, finally finding the exact spot of my sex. The direct contact made me gasp. It was a slow, heavy circle, slick with my own arousal, and I felt my legs go weak. Mateo, behind me, slid one hand over the center of my neckline, pushed the fabric aside, and massaged my other breast with precision, pinching the nipple between two fingers until my vision clouded.

—That’s it —he whispered—. That’s it, Camila. Let go.

The second one kissed me at last, not on the mouth, but on the jaw, then down to my neck again, biting lightly, as if he knew he didn’t need more to dismantle me. His fingers found the other side of my intimacy, parting my vulva carefully and then less carefully, spreading the wetness all over the fold.

—You’re burning up —he said—. Look how open you are.

I lifted myself half an inch and moaned without meaning to. The sound embarrassed me as much as the fact that I made it. The first man pressed harder, losing all subtlety, rubbing me through the fabric until my hip started moving on its own against his hand. The second one dipped lower still and, with the tip of his tongue, licked the skin at the edge of my ear as if he were tasting salt.

—Mateo —I said very softly—, how far do you want this to go?

—As far as you decide —he repeated—. I’m not deciding for you.

But the three of them were bringing me to the edge in such a methodical way that the line sounded like a kindly lie. The first one sank two fingers inside me all at once, and I felt the immediate, brutal spasm that bent me over the table. It wasn’t just fingers: it was the thick pressure of my own desire forcing its way out, the wet sound of my sex swallowing them, the heat running through me and making me want more against my will.

—Fuck —the first one muttered, moving them in and out with a firm rhythm—. You’re soaked.

The second one cupped my face with one hand and made me look at him.

—Tell me you want me to keep going.

I swallowed. I couldn’t.

Mateo pulled my chin back, forcing my neck to arch. His other hand kept working my breast, and the second man’s hand went a little deeper between my legs, helping the first one open me fully. I felt used and cared for at the same time, undone and held up, and that mixture swept through me with a violence I hadn’t known could excite me so much.

—I want —I said at last, barely a thread of voice—. I want you to keep going.

The first one let out a muffled laugh and sped up, and the second one slipped two more fingers from behind the sensation, brushing the edge of my opening with a slow, almost cruel pressure, until pleasure became unbearable. My breathing didn’t seem like mine anymore. Mateo kissed the back of my neck, and the heat of his mouth shattered the last resistance I had left.

—That’s it —he whispered—. That’s how I wanted to see you.

I don’t know how long it lasted. I lost count somewhere between the sound of the chairs, the low music, the pulse in my temples, and the electric tug running through my pelvis. All I remember clearly is the moment everything concentrated in my stomach and, all at once, the first spasm made me clench around the first man’s fingers. Then came another, stronger, and another, with my sex throbbing, wet, open, while the three of them kept touching me as if they wanted to milk my body dry.

—Enough —I whispered again, broken now.

This time Mateo heard me.

—Stop —he said, curtly.

All three hands withdrew at the same time. The silence left behind was so vast I could hear my ears ringing. I stood up abruptly, my legs weak and my skirt stuck to my thigh with my own wetness. Mateo took my arm gently and led me toward the exit without saying a word.

***

The street air hit my face. I walked a few steps without looking at him. Mateo respected the silence. When I finally faced him, I felt my voice coming out broken.

—How could you let that happen?

—I told you that you could stop whenever you wanted. And you stopped. When you truly wanted to.

—You knew I was scared.

—You were scared and curious at the same time. Who am I to decide which of those two things weighs more on you? If I’d taken you out earlier, you would have always wondered what would have happened. Now you know.

I hated him for exactly forty seconds. Then I stopped hating him, because I understood he was right even though I didn’t want to give him that. We walked the four blocks to my building without speaking again.

—Go in and rest —he said when we got there—. And do one thing for me.

—What?

—Write it down. Everything. What happened and what you felt while it was happening. Not for me. For you. And when you’re done, we’ll talk.

I nodded without looking at him. I went up the stairs listening to my heels against the marble. I sat at the desk without taking off my clothes. I took out a notebook and started writing.

***

We met four days later in a quiet café. I offered him the closed notebook.

—No, I don’t want to read it. I want you to tell me.

I breathed in. I’d been rehearsing it since the moment I sat down.

—The first moment anything changed was when the second man touched my thigh under the table. Until then I was scared, only scared. But that touch was different. I felt a current run up my leg and settle somewhere I don’t want to name. And I got even more scared, because I hadn’t expected to feel it.

—Go on.

—Then it was the first man’s hand on my back, under the blouse. That was skin against skin. Not fabric, not rubbing. Skin. And my pores responded without asking me. As if they’d been waiting years for something like that and had never been invited.

Mateo said nothing. He waited.

—And then it was your hands on my neck. Those didn’t surprise me, I knew those. But combined with the other two, they were what finally broke me apart. It was as if three different people were discovering the same body at the same time and that body was mine and I still couldn’t quite believe it.

—And what did you decide, in the end?

—I decided to stop because the idea of not stopping terrified me. Not because I didn’t like it. I did. And that was the worst part.

He looked at me for a long time. Then he smiled, not mockingly, but with something like respect.

—Now you know something about yourself that used to be theory.

I nodded. I drank the coffee, which had gone cold. A pale February sun came in through the window.

—Mateo.

—Yes?

—Next time you propose an experiment, tell me how many variables it has.

—Will there be a next time?

I didn’t answer him. Not completely. But I held his gaze long enough for him to understand, and long enough not to commit myself. And that, that night in that bar, was exactly what I hadn’t been able to do.