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Every Sunday, when she left, I opened her wardrobe and became someone else in front of the mirror. That afternoon she forgot her keys and came back early.

Four men, a thick envelope on the table, and me deciding who I’d call over first. My rule was always the same: I choose, I set the pace, and I leave whenever I feel like it.

I thought nobody had seen me that afternoon at my grandfather’s house. I was wrong: there were a pair of eyes behind the door, and they took fifteen years to speak.

I rolled down the window and spoke to her with my back still turned. When she turned, I knew that freckled blonde was going to change my whole weekend.

In the mirror I stopped being Sebastián. I put on her stockings, her skirt, her perfume, and became the woman nobody knew I carried inside.

Two men enter The Showcase thinking they’re untouchable. Only one will leave as he arrived; the other, the audience has already decided to turn into something sweet, obedient, and forever different.

I grew up between prayers and prohibitions, convinced that pleasure was sin. Until the woman next door sat beside me on the bus and everything began to change.

He knew me when I was a shy boy. Years later I opened the door to him dressed and made up, and in his eyes I saw there was nothing left of the friend he thought he knew.

I told my parents I’d spend the day with a friend. In reality, I was going to Renata’s, where a wig, a pink cage, and a man who knew what he wanted from me were waiting.

I’d never been attracted to men, but that figure on the screen stirred something I couldn’t name. Then she offered to pay me.

The first time I went out on the street dressed as a woman, my legs were shaking. Ten years later, nothing feels better than being watched.

Under my track pants I wore only fishnets and a lace thong. I wasn’t looking for just any doorway: I was looking for the place where they’d treat me like an object.

The dress hugged my body, the stockings brushed me with every step, and when that man held out his hand to dance, I knew I wouldn’t return home the same.

I thought I’d lost the bag containing my most intimate photos. When the doctor messaged me that night, I knew he’d already seen exactly who I was.

I crossed the living room to get a glass of water, forgetting the curtains were still open. On the other side of the glass, his eyes had already found me.

I looked at myself in the mirror wearing my wig and translucent dress, and knew that night I would let a stranger do everything I’d imagined for weeks.

I saved his number as “S.1.” Two days to regret it, and not once did I want to: I wanted them to use me again, worse than the first time.

I had spent years imagining it: getting dressed up, putting on my stockings, and giving myself to a man for the first time. That afternoon, in a hotel room, I stopped imagining it.

I was ready from four in the afternoon, soaked and aching, when that short man knocked on my door, never imagining I’d force out his nickname.

I have my cheek pressed against the cold tile and I can’t remember his face, only the rhythm of him coming in and out of me while his hands hold my waist.