The town’s trans woman took me out dancing that night

The town wasn’t sleeping that night. Thirty-nine degrees at one in the morning and not a breath of air. The windows thrown wide open only let in more sticky heat, the kind that slips in at the back of your neck and runs down your spine until it soaks the waistband of your briefs. Nobody could stand staying inside.

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

Tomás was leaning against an iron column, shirtless, wearing loose shorts that clung to his legs with sweat. He had a plastic cup of lukewarm beer in his hand and was staring without really seeing. At that hour, everything mattered a little less.

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 trans, whether the boys laughed at her on the corner, whether Don Aníbal would let her into the club. Then they got tired of it. She wasn’t a novelty anymore. Camila passed by every morning with the dog and her headphones on, and nobody looked at her more than necessary.

That night she came down with just the bare minimum: a white cotton slip that sweat had already turned almost sheer, and underneath, only a black pair of panties lost between her ass cheeks. Her hair was tied up in a half-undone bun, and her collarbones shone as if they’d been polished.

—Why are you all alone? —someone asked from a table, more out of habit than interest.

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

She passed close to the column where Tomás was standing. She looked at him, raised her eyebrows, and kept walking until she reached the middle of the courtyard, where two or three couples were moving loosely to the rhythm of the cumbia.

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

—Wanna dance? —he asked her, almost like it was a joke.

Camila laughed.

—I don’t know how to dance.

—Neither do I. Even better.

They started moving awkwardly. Steps that never quite matched, accidental hip bumps, laughter spilling out of them every few beats. Camila’s slip kept sticking more and more to her small, firm tits; her nipples pressed through the fabric like two dark buttons. Sweat ran down her neck, her back, between her legs. Every time they got a little closer, the smell of hot skin mingled with beer and the jasmine from the courtyard.

—Look at us —Tomás said, catching her around the waist with easy confidence—. Two sweaty idiots who can’t even keep the beat.

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

—Still, I don’t want to stop —she murmured.

The guy in charge of the speakers turned the volume down. He switched to a slow song, an old ballad that suddenly sounded out of place and, at the same time, perfect. Some people in the courtyard whistled; others took the chance to pull in whoever was closest.

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

—Come on —he whispered in her ear.

Camila didn’t ask where. She followed him.

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

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

Camila pulled her slip off over her head with a quick, no-nonsense motion. Tomás yanked down his shorts with the same urgency. Her body was a map of details he pieced together with his eyes: the small, hard tits, skin just slightly goldened by the summer sun, the smooth stomach, the black panties soaked through, and beneath them her cock pressed against her belly, hard too, hot too.

—Don’t be scared of me —Camila said.

—I’m not scared of you —Tomás answered, and it was the truth.

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

—Slow at first —she asked.

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

—Not that one, dumbass. Wait.

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

—Like that… keep going… open me more… —Camila panted, pushing back.

Tomás pulled his fingers out. He settled in behind her and set the head of his cock against the shiny hole. He pushed.

Camila let out a long, rough moan as the cock started to go in. The sphincter opened around the thick shaft, centimeter by centimeter, until Tomás’s balls were bumping against her. She was completely full.

—It’s so deep inside… —she moaned, with a mix of relief and something darker.

Tomás stayed still for a few seconds, letting her adjust. Then he started moving. First slow, deep, almost careful. Then harder, letting himself go. Each thrust made a wet, dirty sound, sweat-slick skin against sweat-slick skin. Plap, plap, plap. Sweat was running everywhere; it dripped down Camila’s back and mixed with his where their hips met.

—Fuck me —she begged, voice broken—. Use me. Tonight I’m all yours.

Tomás grabbed her hips with both hands and sped up. The cock went in and out without mercy, rubbing hard against that sensitive spot inside her with every удар. Camila felt electric jolts climbing up her spine; her legs trembled out of control. Her cock, trapped between her belly and the wall, kept leaking nonstop.

—I’m… I’m gonna cum… —she sobbed.

—Cum —Tomás growled, not slowing down—. I want to feel you clench.

The pleasure split her in two. First a deep, inner wave that contracted her whole ass around Tomás’s cock and made her legs shake violently. At the same time, her cock started shooting thin, hot spurts against the unpainted wall. The orgasm was so intense Camila lost track of where she was for a moment; she could only moan and convulse, clenching around him.

Tomás held out for two more thrusts and gave in. He roared against the back 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 pressed together, gasping, foreheads against the wall. The little room now smelled like sex, sweat, and that sweet syrup.

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

—So are you —she answered, not taking his cock out of her even though it was already starting to soften.

Camila came out first, slowly, with a soft little whimper. They looked for their clothes among the boxes. They dressed halfway, unhurried. Camila ran her fingers through her hair and fixed her bun with an automatic gesture.

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

The rain came down hard, torrential, like it only does after three weeks of rotten heat. In the bar courtyard, people shouted and laughed; someone turned off the speakers, someone else turned them back on. The couples who were still dancing stayed where they were, now under the water.

Tomás and Camila went out into the courtyard without quite finishing getting dressed. He in his shorts and barefoot, she with the slip clinging to her tits and her panties twisted sideways. Some people looked at them. Others didn’t even notice. The cold rain slapped their skin with a welcome violence.

—Wanna dance again? —Camila asked.

—What, like we didn’t know how, right?

She laughed, threw her arms around his neck, and rested her head on his shoulder. Water ran down their faces and washed 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 put up with. It was just a body. And it was exactly where it needed to be.

***

The next day, the town woke up smelling like wet earth. The speakers were still in Don Aníbal’s bar courtyard, abandoned on top of a beer crate. Nobody was quite sure who took them later.

Tomás crossed by Camila’s block at noon, still heavy-headed from warm beer and the night before. She was on the sidewalk, washing the dog with a hose. She saw him coming and splashed a little water on his legs, laughing.

—Still dying of heat today too? —she asked.

—Not so much now.

Camila turned off the hose. She looked at him with that half-smile he already knew a little better.

—Well —she said—. If anything, you know where to find me.

Tomás kept walking toward the square. He didn’t answer. There was no need. Before turning the corner, he looked back and saw her crouch down again over the dog, humming something you couldn’t hear but that he, somehow, recognized anyway.