The Night He Saw Me in the Black Dress

The message came in at 2:13 a.m., with that sharp buzz you learn to recognize when something is about to change.

“It’s over. This time for real. Can I come over?”

I answered before I even thought about it: “Come. The door’s unlocked.”

Half an hour later, Damián showed up at my door soaked through, smelling of rain, cigarettes, and beer spilled on his jacket. He collapsed onto the sofa like a dead weight, opened a can he’d brought in his pocket, and spent a long while staring at the floor. We talked about anything to avoid talking about the important thing: we insulted his ex, laughed about old stories, but the air between us was thick, charged with something neither of us dared name.

In the middle of an awkward silence, without lifting his eyes, he let slip:

—You always asked me why I got so weird when I saw you dressed up at parties.

I swallowed hard. I knew exactly what he meant. The few times I’d dared go out in heels and a wig, he’d gone quiet all night, watching me from the other end of the room with an expression I’d always preferred not to interpret.

—It wasn’t mockery —he went on, even lower—. Every time you put on those heels and walked like that, I had to make up an excuse to leave. I couldn’t take it.

My heart was pounding against my ribs so hard I thought he might hear it from the other end of the sofa. We’d been friends for almost ten years. Ten years of beers, moves, and nights like this. And never, not once, had we said anything like that out loud.

—And now? —I asked, my voice rougher than I’d wanted.

He finally looked up. His eyes were glassy, but not from drink.

—Now I’m alone —he said—. And you still have that short black dress. The one with the lace back.

He remembered the dress. After so many years, he remembered.

I didn’t answer. I got up and walked to the bedroom without saying a word. From the back of the closet I pulled out the black bag I kept like a secret, the one I only opened when I was sure no one was going to knock at the door.

***

I took my time. The fitted black dress, with its sweetheart neckline and a back made entirely of sheer lace, cinched my waist like a second skin. Underneath, minimal black lingerie, back-seamed fishnets, and high stilettos that forced me to walk slowly, measuring every step. In front of the mirror I put on the long wavy chestnut wig and took my time with the makeup: foundation, dark liner, deep red lips. When I was done, the person looking back at me from the mirror was the one I’d always wanted to be and almost never let out.

I took a deep breath. And went back to the living room.

The sound of my heels against the parquet broke the silence before he saw me. When I appeared in the doorway, Damián’s hand went slack and the can fell to the floor. Beer spilled into a foamy puddle at his feet, and neither of us made the slightest move to clean it up.

—Fuck —he whispered, breathless—. Come here. Slowly.

I walked toward him, measuring every step, letting my hips set the rhythm. When I was half a meter away, he grabbed my waist with both hands and dug his fingers in through the fabric. He looked me up and down, slowly, as if he wanted to memorize every detail before it vanished.

—I always knew you’d be beautiful —he murmured against my neck, and his hot breath raised gooseflesh all over my skin—. And look at you. Tonight you’re mine.

My knees trembled in the heels.

He backed me against the wall with controlled firmness, not rough, but leaving me no choice. His mouth found mine in a kiss that was anything but timid: tongue, teeth, my lower lip trapped between his until a muffled sound escaped me against his mouth. Ten years of saying nothing poured out in that kiss.

His hands slid down my back, traced the lace, found the hem of the dress and yanked it upward, bunching it at my waist. His fingers followed the seam of the stockings, climbed my thigh, reached the edge of my lingerie.

—You dressed like this thinking about someone —he said hoarsely, biting my earlobe—. Who?

—You —I admitted on a gasp, and it was true. It had always been true.

He let out a low, dark, satisfied laugh.

—Beautiful liar —he said, though he knew I wasn’t lying.

***

He spun me around sharply and I ended up with my cheek against the cold wall. I felt his hard erection pressing against me, rubbing, impatient. He yanked my clothes down halfway to my thigh, not bothering to take them off all the way, leaving them like a tether between my legs.

—Open up —he ordered in my ear, his voice trembling with held-back need.

I obeyed. I braced myself against the wall and offered myself up, pulse racing and a delicious shame burning my face under the makeup.

He worked me open patiently, first with his fingers, slowly, listening to every one of my gasps like they were instructions. When one of his fingers curled inward and found the exact spot, I arched my back and a sharp moan escaped me, one I didn’t even recognize as my own.

—There —I begged—. Don’t stop, please.

—You like it —he murmured, more statement than question—. I always knew you’d like it with me.

—Yes —I panted, trembling against the wall—. With you.

He pulled his fingers out and I heard him shove his pants down in a hurried, clumsy motion. He pressed the hot tip against me and pushed, slowly, without pausing, opening me little by little. I felt every inch like a current running up my spine.

—You’re so tight —he growled, his forehead against the back of my neck.

—Keep going —I begged, my voice breaking—. Slow, but keep going.

He drove all the way in on one final restrained thrust, and we both let out the same long moan at the same time, as if we’d been holding our breath for a decade.

He started moving. First slow, deep, savoring every pullout and every return. He held my hips with both hands, fingers sunk into my flesh, setting a rhythm that grew, becoming deeper, more urgent. The dress hiked up to my chest, the wig sticking to my sweaty neck, makeup smearing in dark streaks down my cheeks.

—Harder —I pleaded, no longer recognizing my own high voice—. Don’t hold back.

Every thrust tore a moan from me. Every answer from him was a muffled growl against my shoulder, my name said like a forbidden word.

***

He turned me around again. He wanted to see my face. He lifted one leg, the heel dangling in the air, and came back in while staring straight into my eyes.

—Look at me —he demanded, his voice in shreds—. I want to see your face while it happens.

I looked at him. And while he held me against the wall, his other hand reached around to the front and began stroking me in the same rhythm as his thrusts, fast, precise, giving me no respite.

—I’m going to come —I warned, desperate, clinging to his shoulders—. I can’t take it anymore.

—Come —he ordered against my lips—. I want to feel it.

I came screaming his name, my whole body shaking, my heels slipping in the puddle of beer, his arms the only thing keeping me upright. He didn’t stop. He kept moving faster, deeper, until he buried himself one last time and went still, emptying himself with a low roar that rose from his chest.

—Stay like that —he gasped, still inside, still barely moving—. Don’t move.

He didn’t pull out. He lifted me up without separating from me, sat on the sofa, and settled me on top of him, straddling him, my weight against his. He held me, face buried in my neck, breathing in ragged pulls, his heart hammering as hard as mine.

We stayed like that for a long while, both of us sticky and undone, with no desire to let go.

—Are we still “best friends”? —he asked at last, with a hoarse, exhausted laugh.

I bit his neck softly, leaving a faint mark.

—We’re best friends who took ten years to figure it out —I murmured—. And who still have an entire closet full of clothes to break in.

He laughed softly, that dirty, complicit laugh I’d known forever.

—Then get ready —he said—. Because I’m never giving you back to friendship again.

He kissed me again, slow, deep, unhurried.

***

We barely slept that night. When the sky started to lighten outside the window, we were still tangled up, speaking in low voices about everything we’d never said in a decade. The black dress had ended up like a crumpled rag on the floor, beside the tossed-aside heels and the empty can on top of the now-dry puddle.

I watched him sleep for a moment, with that expression I’d never seen on him before, peaceful, as if he’d come home after a very long trip. I thought that for years the two of us had carried the same secret in silence, each on his own, too afraid to let it go.

How stupid we were. So many parties, so many glances, so much time wasted.

When the sun fully came up, the black dress was still on the floor, a mute witness to the dawn when we finally stopped being “just friends.”