By the Horns

I, am Pilar Marín, and my favorite drug is dodging the horns of a charging bull.

As I look out now, into the heart of the arena, the banderilleros are luring the bull, getting him ready for a dance with death. A dance with me. I have worked arduously to get where I am, but I have an obstacle. It is the same hurdle that has plagued women since Christ walked the Earth, and even before.

Can you guess it?

I would give you praise if you knew the answer was men, but it is too easy a question. One would think that maneuvering around the deadly horns of a tremendous beast would cause a bullfighter like me the most concern. But no. It is the ego of weak-minded men and their “traditions” that prevents us from glory. They create a sport and monopolize prestige. It’s a boy’s club and we girls are not allowed even a taste of the fame.

When I was a child, I thought that I would never find myself in an arena, surrounded by spectators searching for skill, desiring spectacle. As I aged, I discovered something: You do not need a cock to fight a bull. Even still, the men wish to hog the praise.

I have found a way around this, for a time. And though I must bind my chest, wear a mask, lower my voice, and take on a different identity, I can do what makes the blood flow through my veins. I can do what makes life feel alive. What is one’s public identity when compared with purpose? It would be nice to have it all, yes, but if I am to fight in Sevilla, if I am to fight in Madrid—on the biggest stages in the world—then concessions must be made.

Today is an important day. Today is the day I dance in the Plaza de Toros.

As a woman, the furthest I was allowed in the ring was on the outskirts of the big cities. In the smaller rings, I fought beautifully, but my crowd was inadequate. Today, as Ramón Marín, I will make my professional debut and an audience of thousands will adore me.

I look down at the fine red capote de brega in my hands, then to the ravishing black, silver, and gold traje de luces that my mother helped me acquire and I feel like I could perform miracles. She hates that I fight, but she knows I will do nothing else until I draw my last breath. I told her that if I never see glory as a matador, as Pilar Marín, then I will not have achieved all that I desire. But today, I must give a man all the glory, even if that man is me. Ramón will have the adoration today, but someday I will not have to hide my face. Someday I will show all of Spain that Pilar can do what any man can do. They will name a maneuver after me, and every matador that comes after me will learn it. My name will be on their lips until the last bull is killed in the last ring, and I will smile in my grave as the men use my technique and speak my name. In this way, I will be immortal.

But first, I must dance with the bull before me.

I step out into the arena. I admit I am nervous. My hands twitch on my cape, for there is a silence in the crowd that I did not anticipate. The crowd must be waiting with bated breath for the newcomer to show their skill.

That is good. I want to earn their respect. Nothing worth having is given. It must be earned or taken. I display the red cape for the bull to charge. The bull knows not that the cape is red, nor that it is only used to hide his blood, it only sees a moving target and it charges.

The bull passes as I get as close as possible, I run a finger down one of his horns and quickly replace two hands on my capote de brega.

“¡Olé!” the crowd shouts. My blood is pumping through my veins now, and the nervousness I felt before is part of a past that I will never have to think of again.

“¡Olé!” they shout again as the bull passes, and each time I perform an act of bravery: a caress of the bull’s flank, a touch of its ear.

The trumpet sounds and the picadors come in to weaken the bull, to get him ready for his final dance. When I return, a man is waiting for me: Antonio Moreno, the other matador performing today.

“Ramón Marín,” Antonio says to me.

I nod. I avoid the use of my voice if possible.

“The crowd, they love you,” he says.

I gather my muleta and estoque and ignore his pointless conversation.

“You know,” he says, “the way you move reminds me of someone. Though I only ever saw her in some of the smaller rings.”

I grip my estoque tighter. Antonio, looking at my handle on the blade, says, “Easy.”

I ask him what he wants.

“You kept the last name, yet you wish to remain anonymous?”

“You are an outlier, most men in the business would take no interest in me, nor would they remember my name.”

He agrees with me and says the wisest thing I have ever heard a man say: “I care not what you are, man or woman. When someone steps into the ring, they are a bullfighter.”

I loosen the grip on my estoque.

“Maybe you should have considered changing your surname as well,” he says.

“I would prefer they already have the name Marín on their lips. When the time comes to learn my true name, they will already know half.”

He smiles at me. “Go now,” he says, “and good luck, Pilar.”

The sound of my first name coming from the mouth of a prestigious matador was not something I had anticipated would happen for many years. Even if he is a man, at least he has sense.

I enter the bullring once more and lead the wary beast with my muleta for a few passes. When the show is up, I thank the bull for his sacrifice and for being my dance partner. I pierce his aorta with my estoque and watch as he freezes, then stumbles to the ground.

The crowd roars and my spirit lifts and every problem in the world seems to melt away. Have you ever had a standing ovation from thousands of people? It is better than the best thing you can think of and even better than that.

I realize at this moment that my new drug of choice is fame. And that I will do what I must to obtain it.