The Town’s Trans Woman Asked Me to Dance That Night

The town wasn’t sleeping that early morning. Thirty-nine degrees at one o’clock and not a breath of air. The windows thrown wide open only let in more sticky heat, the kind that creeps down the nape of your neck and runs down your back until it soaks the waistband of your underwear. No one could stand staying indoors.

In the big courtyard of old Don Aníbal’s bar, someone had plugged two speakers into a power strip and was playing cumbia, old reggaetón, and the occasional cuarteto. It wasn’t an organized party. It was pure survival. The neighborhood had gone out looking for air and found music instead, so it stayed.

Tomás was leaning against an iron column, shirtless, wearing loose shorts that clung to his legs with sweat. He held a plastic cup of lukewarm beer and stared without really looking. At that hour, nothing mattered much.

And then he saw her appear.

Camila lived around the corner from the bar, in a little low-roofed house. She had moved to town with her mother two summers earlier. At first, people talked too much: whether she was a trans woman, whether the kids laughed at her on the corner, whether Don Aníbal would let her into the club. Then they got tired of it. She wasn’t news anymore. Camila passed by every morning with the dog and her earbuds in, and nobody looked at her any longer than necessary.

That early morning she came down wearing the bare minimum: a white cotton camisole that the sweat had already made almost transparent, and underneath, barely more than a black pair of panties disappearing between her butt cheeks. Her hair was pulled into a half-undone bun, and her collarbones gleamed as though they’d been polished.

“What are you doing out here all alone?” someone called to her from a table, more out of habit than interest.

“Looking for air, same as you,” she answered without stopping.

She passed near the column where Tomás stood. She looked at him, raised her eyebrows, and kept walking to the center of the courtyard, where two or three couples were moving lazily to the cumbia.

Tomás set his cup on the floor. He didn’t think much about it. He walked over.

“Dance?” he asked, almost as if it were a joke.

Camila laughed.

“I don’t know how to dance.”

“Neither do I. Even better.”

They started moving awkwardly. Steps that didn’t match, accidental hip bumps, laughter escaping them every couple of measures. Camila’s camisole clung tighter and tighter to her small, firm tits; her nipples outlined the fabric like two dark buttons. Sweat ran down her neck, her back, between her legs. Every time they came a little closer, the smell of hot skin mingled with beer and the jasmine in the courtyard.

“Look at us,” Tomás said, taking her confidently by the waist. “Two sweaty idiots who don’t even know how to keep the rhythm.”

Camila rested her forehead against his shoulder for a second. She kept laughing and laughing.

“I still don’t want to stop,” she murmured.

The person in charge of the speakers lowered the volume. He switched to a slow song, an old ballad that suddenly sounded out of place and perfect at the same time. Some people in the courtyard whistled; others took the opportunity to embrace whoever was close by.

Tomás and Camila pressed against each other. Their laughter slowly faded. He slid his hands down her soaked back until he found the edge of her panties, right above the cleft of her ass. She felt Tomás’s thick, hard cock pressing against her stomach through the fabric of his shorts.

“Come on,” he said in her ear.

Camila didn’t ask where. She followed him.

Tomás led her around the side of the bar, to a little tool room half-hidden behind the kitchen. It smelled of wood shavings, old beer, and something sweet that might have been spilled syrup. A yellow bulb hung from the ceiling, giving them just enough light to see each other’s faces.

As soon as they closed the door, there were no more words for a while.

Camila pulled the camisole over her head in one quick gesture, without any theatrics. Tomás lowered his shorts with the same urgency. Her body was a map of details he pieced together with his eyes: the small, hard tits, the skin lightly tanned by the summer sun, the smooth belly, the soaked black panties, and beneath them, her cock pressed against her stomach, hard too, hot too.

“Don’t be afraid of me,” Camila said.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Tomás replied, and it was the truth.

She turned around, bracing her hands against the unpainted plaster wall. She pushed her ass backward, offering herself, and looked over her shoulder with a calm that didn’t match the heat inside her.

“Slowly at first,” she asked.

Tomás spat on his fingers. He began rubbing her hole with his thumb, slowly, feeling the inner heat welcome him. Then one whole finger, then two. The ring stretched, yielded, softened with sweat and arousal. On a high shelf there was a little bottle of machine lubricant, which Camila pointed at with her chin, laughing.

“Not that, dumbass. Wait.”

She stretched her arm toward her purse, which she had dropped beside the door, and pulled out another, much smaller bottle. She tossed it over her shoulder. Tomás opened it, poured a good amount into his palm, and spread it over his cock and fingers. Three now, opening her, twisting, preparing her with a patience he didn’t even know he possessed.

“That’s it… keep going… open me more…” Camila panted, pushing backward.

Tomás pulled out his fingers. He positioned himself behind her and pressed the head of his cock against her glistening hole. He pushed.

Camila let out a long, hoarse moan as the shaft began to enter. Her sphincter opened around the thick length, inch by inch, until Tomás’s balls struck against her. She was completely full.

“It’s so deep inside…” she moaned, with a mixture of relief and something darker.

Tomás stayed still for a few seconds, letting her adjust. Then he began to move. Slowly at first, deeply, almost carefully. Then harder, giving himself over to it. Every thrust made a wet, filthy sound of sweaty skin against sweaty skin. Smack, smack, smack. Sweat streamed everywhere; it ran down Camila’s back and mingled with his at the meeting of their hips.

“Fuck me,” she begged in a broken voice. “Use me. Tonight I’m all yours.”

Tomás gripped her hips with both hands and sped up. His cock drove in and out without mercy, rubbing hard against that sensitive place inside her with every thrust. Camila felt electric shocks climbing her spine; her legs trembled uncontrollably. Her cock, trapped between her belly and the wall, dripped without stopping.

“I’m… I’m going to come…” she sobbed.

“Come,” Tomás growled without slowing down. “I want to feel you squeezing me.”

Pleasure split her in two. First came a deep, internal wave that contracted her entire ass around Tomás’s cock and made her legs shake violently. At the same time, her cock began shooting thin, hot streams against the unpainted wall. The orgasm was so intense that Camila briefly lost all sense of where she was; she only moaned and shook, squeezing around him.

Tomás lasted through two more thrusts and gave in. He roared against the nape of her neck and emptied himself inside her, flooding her ass with thick, hot spurts that kept coming even after he had no breath left.

They stayed joined, panting, their foreheads resting against the wall. The little room now smelled of sex, sweat, and that sweet syrup.

“You’re crazy,” he said after a while, laughing softly.

“So are you,” she replied, without removing from inside her the cock that was already beginning to soften.

Camila came out first, slowly, with a soft whimper. They searched for their clothes among the boxes. They dressed halfway, without hurrying. Camila ran her fingers through her hair and fixed her bun with an automatic gesture.

And then, outside, one drop. Then another. Then a dull, dense sound that seemed to come from everywhere at once.

The rain came down hard, torrential, the way it only does after three weeks of rotten heat. Shouts and laughter rose from the bar’s courtyard; someone switched off the speakers, and someone else switched them back on. The couples who were still dancing stayed where they were, now beneath the water.

Tomás and Camila stepped into the courtyard without finishing getting dressed. He wore his shorts and was barefoot; she had her camisole plastered to her tits and her panties twisted out of place. Some people looked at them. Others didn’t even register them. The cold rain struck their skin with a welcome violence.

“Dance again?” Camila asked.

“And we didn’t even know how, remember?”

She laughed, slipped her arms around his neck, and rested her head on his shoulder. Water ran down their faces, washing away the sweat, the semen, the whole night. For the first time all summer, Tomás’s body stopped being a problem, an annoyance, something to endure. It was just a body. And it was exactly where it needed to be.

***

The next day, the town woke smelling of wet earth. The speakers were still in Don Aníbal’s bar courtyard, abandoned on top of a beer crate. Nobody ever quite found out who took them away afterward.

At noon, Tomás crossed the block where Camila lived, still heavy-headed from the lukewarm beer and the early morning. She was on the sidewalk, washing the dog with a hose. She saw him coming and sprayed a little water at his legs, laughing.

“Are you dying of heat again today?” she asked.

“Not so much anymore.”

Camila turned off the hose. She kept looking at him with that half-smile he now knew a little better.

“Well,” she said, “if anything comes up, you know where to find me.”

Tomás kept walking toward the square. He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Before turning the corner, he looked back and saw her bend over the dog again, humming something he couldn’t hear but somehow recognized anyway.