I Left as a Man and Entered the Hotel as a Woman

That February 14th I had no couple plans, no romantic dinner, nothing even remotely like that. I had something better in mind: desire. I’d spent weeks logging into one of those chats where you go looking for what everyday life doesn’t give you, and that afternoon, among dozens of empty messages, he appeared. He introduced himself as active, straightforward, no nonsense and no cheap poetry. I liked that. I wasn’t in the mood to be courted; I wanted to be desired.

We exchanged a couple of lines and immediately agreed to meet that very night. There was no photo involved, no promises of eternal love, just two people with an appetite and an address. Sometimes that’s all you need. I gave him my address and we agreed he’d pick me up around eleven thirty.

The hours before felt endless. I took a long bath, perfuming every inch of myself, and then devoted myself to getting ready with the patience of a ritual. I painted my nails a deep red, chose my underwear carefully, the kind that makes me feel powerful, and stared at myself in the mirror for a long time. Tonight I am who I want to be, I thought, running my hands over my hips. My skin prickled with anticipation, and between my legs I was already starting to feel that tingling that promises a good night.

There was one thing I made clear before I closed the chat, because I didn’t want surprises for either of us. I wrote that I would leave my house dressed as a man, discreetly, so as not to draw the neighbors’ attention, but that as soon as we crossed the hotel door I would transform into a woman through and through. He replied with a simple “I love that,” and those two words left me trembling with impatience.

Punctual, his car appeared on the corner a little after eleven thirty. I got in without hurrying, my heart galloping in my chest. But the moment I got close, something stopped me. The car had the insignia of an official department painted on the door, the kind you don’t expect to see on a clandestine date. I got in with a knot in my stomach, going over all the warnings a woman like me has heard all her life.

“Relax, I don’t bite,” he said when he noticed how rigid I was.

His name was Andrés, or at least that’s what he told me, and he had a deep voice that contrasted with his hands, which gripped the steering wheel nervously. I’m not the only scared one here, I realized, and oddly enough that calmed me down. I glanced at him from the side: he was about forty, dressed simply, in a shirt that smelled freshly ironed, as if he had made an effort for the occasion. That small gesture melted me more than I expected.

We started chatting about nonsense to break the ice: how long we’d been in the chat, what we were looking for, the dates that had gone well and the ones that had been a disaster. He spoke little, answered just enough, and then fell silent again, but when he did look at me it was in a way that said much more than his words. Little by little, the knot in my stomach loosened and I let curiosity beat fear.

“Shall we buy some beers for the room?” he suggested, and it seemed like a great idea to me so we could really loosen up.

We stopped at a shop on the avenue and he came back with a six-pack of cold cans. As he drove toward downtown, I noticed he grew quieter and quieter, his gaze fixed on the asphalt. To ease the tension, I decided to play a little. I lowered my voice until it became a murmur and asked him, as casually as possible, how big he was.

He let out a nervous laugh and, to my surprise, was completely honest.

“It’s not big,” he admitted, shrugging. “I’ve never been one to brag about that.”

His honesty appealed to me more than any boasting ever could. I was sick of men who promised the world and delivered less than nothing. For a stranger to tell me the truth before even touching me seemed, in its odd way, very arousing.

***

We arrived at a short-stay hotel near downtown, one of those discreet places where nobody asks questions. We went up to the room and, as soon as the door closed behind us, I left behind the man who had walked out of the house. I let my hair down, touched up my lips, and let the woman inside me take complete control of the scene.

I took my time with the transformation, aware that he couldn’t take his eyes off me. I pulled the lipstick, the mascara, the earrings I’d chosen that afternoon out of my bag, and piece by piece I built, in front of the mirror, the woman I have to hide during the day. Every gesture was a small declaration. Look at me closely, I thought, this is how I am when no one forces me to pretend. I felt his gaze travel over my legs, the curve of my back, and I knew I already had him at my mercy before I’d even touched him.

Andrés looked at me from the edge of the bed as if he still couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. He began to undress slowly, garment by garment, and when he pulled down his underwear I confirmed what he’d warned me about in the car: he was small, modest, nothing like the exaggerations from the chat. I didn’t mind at all. What I was going to do with it depended far more on his eagerness than on its size.

I lay back on the bed, pulled him toward me, and began to work him over with my mouth. I did it slowly, savoring every reaction, feeling the nerves from the car melt under my tongue. I wasn’t in a hurry. I wanted him to lose his mind, to forget the insignia on the car, the hour, everything that wasn’t my mouth working him over slowly. He responded immediately, arching, letting out sighs that told me I was on the right track. That’s how I like it, trembling for me, I thought as I felt him harden between my lips.

While I kept going, I looked up to see his face. His eyes were closed, his mouth half open, his hands tense on the sheets. Seeing him like that, surrendered and vulnerable, turned me on as much as any caress. There is enormous power in holding a man on that edge, and I was enjoying every second of it, drawing out the moment as much as I could.

“Let me,” he murmured, his breathing ragged.

He asked permission to try something else, and when I gave it to him, he parted my legs and lowered himself to my entrance with his tongue. He did it with a dedication I hadn’t expected from someone so shy behind the wheel. A shock ran up my spine and a long, deep moan escaped me, the kind you don’t fake. That quiet, nervous man turned out to have a very generous mouth.

From there we moved on to sixty-nine, leaving both of us gasping. We gave ourselves over at the same time, giving each other pleasure without pause, hands searching, mouths busy. Feeling his tongue while I had him in mine created a circle of pleasure that fed itself, each of his moans pulling one from me, and the two of us losing control together. The room filled with sticky heat and the sound of our breathing. We were both burning hot, and I felt like the night was finally beginning to give me what I’d gone out looking for.

***

When we couldn’t take it anymore, he asked me for something I couldn’t give him. He wanted me to penetrate him. I shook my head, almost tenderly, and explained that I’m passive, that my place in bed is somewhere else. We tried for a moment, unsuccessfully; he barely got a little in before we both understood that way wasn’t going to get either of us anywhere.

“Then let me,” I said, and settled myself on my back, opening for him.

I suggested he use lubricant, because haste is never good advice, and he obeyed carefully. He positioned himself between my legs and pushed in slowly. I felt him enter, modest but firm, and for a moment I believed that night would take me exactly where I wanted. I closed my eyes, clung to his shoulders, and prepared for the ride.

The ride, however, was very short. After only a few thrusts, Andrés tensed, moaned against my neck, and came with a speed that left me halfway there. He collapsed over me, breathless, while I was left with my body on fire and desire still pounding between my legs. No, not like this, I thought, with a frustration I tried to hide.

I didn’t blame him. It made no sense. I stroked his back while he caught his breath and let silence do its work. Inside, though, I remained unsatisfied, with that bitter feeling of being left at the threshold of something that had promised so much more.

***

On the way back, Andrés was once again the nervous man from the beginning. Every few blocks he asked me, almost guiltily, whether I’d enjoyed it, whether I’d been satisfied, whether everything had been okay. I lied, of course. I told him yes, that it had been delicious, because sometimes the truth is unnecessary and a little kindness doesn’t hurt anyone.

“Will we see each other again?” he asked when he stopped the car in front of my house.

I said yes. We set a date for the following Friday, and as I got out of the car and watched him drive away with the official insignia shining under the streetlights, part of me kept a small hope. Maybe with less nervousness, with more confidence, that second date would give me what this night had denied me.

I went upstairs, removed my makeup slowly in front of the mirror, and little by little became again the discreet person my neighbors know. But inside, that other woman kept vibrating, the one from the hotel, the one who dares. Friday, I promised myself as I switched off the light, Friday will be different. And I fell asleep with that promise on my lips, already longing for it to arrive.