The Player Caught Me Watching Him from the Stands

Before I tell what I’m living now, I have to confess where I come from. My first man was my cousin Mateo, many years ago. He made me a woman one farewell afternoon and, without anyone knowing, what we had lasted a good while until he left for abroad. I was barely a girl and I was left alone, keeping that secret the way you keep a coal: afraid it will go out and, at the same time, afraid it will burn.

After him there were others. Too many, perhaps. None of them marked me for real. They were fleeting encounters, hurried hands in hotel rooms, men who never asked my real name and didn’t care. I got used to that double life. By day, an ordinary man who went to work and greeted the neighbors. By night, something else. Something only I knew.

Until he appeared.

***

I met him at a neighborhood soccer tournament. I didn’t play, of course. I went on Sunday afternoons with the excuse of getting some fresh air, but the truth was different: I liked watching the boys’ legs, their marked thighs under their shorts, the sweat on their backs when they took off their shirts at the end. I sat in the concrete stands, wearing dark glasses, pretending to be interested in the score.

Among them all there was one who stole my attention. Tall, solid-bodied, with a calm way of moving on and off the field. When the match ended, he and his friends sat down to drink a few beers and cool off. I watched him whenever I could, stealing glances I thought were invisible.

They weren’t. That afternoon he suddenly looked up and fixed his eyes on me. He didn’t look away. I blushed and looked elsewhere, pretending not to notice, but by then he was already standing up. He walked over to the stands with a bottle in his hand and sat down beside me as if we’d known each other forever.

—Do you like me? —he asked, bluntly.

I felt the heat rise all the way to my ears.

—Why... why are you asking me that? —I stammered.

—Easy —he said, and that word, easy, completely undid me—. I noticed the way you were looking at me. I don’t mind. If you want, we can go somewhere else for a drink. What do you think?

I agreed in a whisper. He said goodbye to his friends naturally, picked up his bag, and waited a few steps away so they wouldn’t see us leaving together. We walked to a small restaurant on the avenue, one of those places with dim light and checkered tablecloths, where nobody knew us.

***

He ordered two drinks and toasted to our friendship. My hands were cold with nerves. Once we were alone, I dared to speak. I confessed that yes, I had liked him from the very first moment I saw him, and that no one knew the way I lived, that everything in my life was a secret.

He didn’t get scared. He asked me questions calmly, one after another, while looking me in the eyes. I told him I had been with several men, that my first love had been a cousin who no longer lived in the country, that after him came others who passed through without leaving a trace.

—My name is Andrés —he said at last—. I’m thirty-eight. I was about to get married, but my girlfriend cheated on me a few days before the wedding. I’ve been alone ever since.

—I’m forty-four —I replied, and I was surprised by how easy it was to talk to him.

He ordered another round. The conversation grew slower, more intimate. At some point his knee brushed mine under the table, and neither of us moved.

—Do you feel like coming to my apartment? —he asked—. It’s nearby, in a nice area. Just to talk, if you want.

We both knew it wasn’t just to talk.

***

I arrived at the time we’d agreed. I went up to the fifth floor and knocked on his door with my heart pounding in my chest. He opened it, took my hand to let me in, and gave me a soft kiss on the cheek. I hadn’t expected that. It was a gentleman’s gesture, delicate, and it made me feel cared for in a way I wasn’t used to.

He served me a soft drink and we talked for a while in the living room. Then he asked if I had brought clothes to change into. I told him yes, but that I wanted to take a shower first.

—No problem —he said—. I’m going out to buy something to eat and drink. Meanwhile, get ready.

He showed me the bedroom and the bathroom, and left. I showered slowly, with that mix of shame and desire I still felt every time. I put on a black dress that hugged my body, fishnet stockings, carefully applied my makeup, and adjusted a wig that fell to my shoulders. When I looked in the mirror, I finally saw myself the way I had always wanted to look.

He came back forty minutes later. I heard him come in and call me.

—Are you ready?

—Yes —I answered from the bedroom—. I’m here.

He stood in the doorway. He looked me over from head to toe, without saying a word, and I blushed under his gaze. But instead of making me uncomfortable, he smiled. He took my hand and led me into the living room.

***

He put on romantic music and dimmed the lights.

—Let’s dance —he said.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and he took me by the waist. We started moving slowly, pressed together. I had never felt as much like a woman as I did in that moment, resting my head on his shoulder, feeling his breath in my ear.

—Do you want to be my girlfriend? —he murmured.

—Just for today? —I asked, afraid of the answer.

—For a long time —he said—. Today I’m going to make you my woman. You’re beautiful.

He kissed me on the mouth. His tongue sought mine and they played together while his hands slid down my back to my ass and squeezed it. I could feel his bulge growing against my body, harder and harder, more and more insistent.

When the song ended, right there, standing up, he started undressing me. He lowered my dress slowly, unclasped my bra. I was left in a thong, with my stockings and high heels. He lowered his mouth to my breasts, sucked them hard, bit my nipples until he left marks, and kept going down my belly with his tongue. My skin was prickling all over.

He turned me around. He covered my back and buttocks with kisses and gentle bites. Then he made me lean over the sofa, on my knees, and pulled my thong aside. I felt his tongue between my ass cheeks, opening me with his hands, and a shiver ran through me from head to toe. I was about to come without anyone even touching me.

***

He climbed onto the sofa and brought his sex to my mouth. Only then did I see it clearly: big, thick. Only once had I had anything like that. I got nervous and started slowly, running my tongue over the tip. He noticed the effort I was making.

—Easy, my love, slowly —he said, stroking my hair—. Don’t rush.

Little by little I took him in. When he was ready, he gathered saliva on his fingers and brought it to my entrance. He prepared me patiently, first one finger, then two, then three, stretching me carefully.

—You’re ready now —he whispered.

—Slowly, please —I asked him.

He pushed. On the third try he went all the way in, and a moan escaped me, caught between pain and pleasure. I clenched around him to feel him fully, filling me. He held my shoulders and thrust hard, and my body was carried away into a long orgasm, the most intense I had ever had. I moaned without shame, like the woman I was.

—You’re so delicious —he panted against my nape—. You have no idea how good you make me feel.

He quickened his thrusts until his whole body went taut.

—Now you’re my woman —he said, and came deep inside me.

We collapsed on the sofa, me face down and him on my back, both of us out of breath. Then we went into the shower and washed under the water, laughing, kissing, his hands roaming over me again. In the steam we lost ourselves in a long kiss, the kind you don’t forget.

—Do you like the name Lara? —he asked me, looking into my eyes.

—Yes —I told him, with a lump in my throat—. Thank you.

For the first time, someone called me what I wanted to be called.

***

That was the first of many meetings. By the third, he was already asking me to live together, and that’s what we did. Today we share an apartment. We both work; I usually get home earlier and get ready, fix myself up. At home I dress as I really am; out on the street I’m still a normal man, because I still don’t dare come out of the closet to the rest of the world.

But with him I live a love I had never known before. On weekends he takes me out in the car to public places for a few drinks, and people barely even notice when he kisses me. Then we go into a hotel and make love until dawn. On Sundays we stay home, lazy, watching television and loving each other without hurry.

I have more stories stored away, memories of so many men who passed through my life before Andrés. One day I’ll tell them. For now I’ll keep this one, the only one that truly made me happy. He doesn’t know I write these stories, and I’d rather it stay that way.

Everything I told is real. Your comments will be welcome, good or bad.