Listening to fornicate

I would never have imagined that writing these confessions would bring back so many memories. I'm taking the advice given—mandated—by my husband: Don't follow a writing plan. Let your ideas flow. And that's why I'm breaking the order. In this confession, I won't recount the second-best hotel sex we've ever had. That's for next time. Now, I'll take advantage of the fact that, while I was writing about that encounter during the Immaculate Conception long weekend, something slipped from the recesses of my mind. I relived an anecdote that wasn't particularly significant, but one that I find very funny, and that's why I'm going to tell it. There isn't much sex, so I apologize to the wankers reading this. You'll be able to caress Mr. Calvo again.

I entered university in 1997 after passing the entrance exams and the COU (Center for Advanced Placement). I rented, or rather, my parents rented, an apartment with three other students, and I spent the first few years of my degree there. Years later, I would move to a different apartment, but back then it was close to campus. In total, there were four of us girls in the throes of puberty. One of us had the brilliant idea of studying Telecommunication. She was good at math and thought it would be easy. In the first semester, she got screwed, and not the way women like to be screwed. She didn't even pass the cafeteria. So, with a heavy heart, she decided to change cities and majors. She was going to do a diploma, in Nursing, I think. But that would be the following year, so she went back to her hometown and left us hanging on the rent. It didn't take long to find a replacement; a lively Slovakian named Iveta , who spoke half Spanish and half English, and between those halves, we understood each other at times. He didn't really integrate with us because he only spent the rest of that year in our apartment.

I've always tended to stay up late and leave things to the last minute. Two habits that feed off each other, and generally not for the better. I remember I had a project due the next day, and I was rushing around that night in my room, writing it on a beloved Intel 486 PC. I'd had several pots of coffee and a Katovit . At times, my legs were shaking from the caffeine, but I was focused and managed to finish it around 3:00 a.m. I've suffered from anxiety for as long as I can remember, and this kind of behavior isn't the best way to calm it. The Isabel of today would have told off that young college student, but seeing myself in the city, away from my parents' house, and with a boyfriend made me feel like I could handle anything, even if it was at the last minute. By the way, that boyfriend isn't Jose , but Antonio. He was the one I lost my virginity to, but I'll tell you about that when I have to. As I said, I finally finished at 3:00 a.m. I turned off the computer and decided to have a drink in the kitchen before sleeping for the few hours that remained at night.

My bedroom was at the end of the hallway that led to the living room. To get to the kitchen, you had to go through that room. I did all this in the dark. It's not that difficult because after a while you've been in the dark, you get used to it, since it wasn't completely dark. The streetlights came in through the windows, and I really had no trouble seeing. I preferred to keep the lights off so as not to wake anyone. I didn't turn on the kitchen light either. I wanted to make a cool nesquit . I took the semi-skimmed milk out of the fridge, grabbed the can from the shelf, and sat in a chair, diluting the powder and clearing my mind, dulled from hours in front of the computer.

And as I took the first sips, I heard the door open. Iveta came in with someone. I don't know who it was, but they were speaking softly so I couldn't understand them. They were speaking in English, giggled a bit, and soon they threw themselves down on the couch. The guy's English was like mine: with an Andalusian accent. So he's Spanish. Good for Iveta . The kitchen door was ajar, and from where I was sitting, I could only see part of the armchair where the two lovebirds were screwing. I couldn't see much, but I could hear that ancient sofa creaking. I thought they were just going to grope each other, but I soon realized they were fucking. They must have come in hot from outside because the truth is I didn't have time to react. I wanted to go out and say hello, I swear. But once they started fucking, I stopped. I sat there petrified, silent while these two had a great time on the couch. Why didn't they go to her room? I still wonder, and the only answer I gave myself back then, and still hold to today, is that Iveta was a fucking disaster when it came to order. She had everything in her room: beer bottles on the floor, the ashtray full of cigarette butts, clothes scattered haphazardly on the chair, books open and stained with coffee, and the closet like a jungle. Why the hell didn't she put her clothes in the closet?! I didn't see it, but Marta, one of my roommates, told me the closet was full of assorted junk. You can imagine how messed up those sheets were. She must have changed them only two or three times during the time she was with us. Hell, when I didn't close her door and walked past her room, I could see the messy bed with the period-stained sheets. I feel sickened reliving it.

So when Iveta wanted to taste some Spanish cock, she decided it was better to enjoy herself on that sofa from the Arias Navarro era than to show the guy her shabby room. At that precise moment, I wasn't thinking about all this, of course. I had a bad enough headache from spending all night in front of the screen. I remained there, motionless as a statue. I blinked because I had no other choice. But I froze. I would have liked to be able to describe to you what he put inside her, or what she sucked or didn't lick, or which Slovak holes ended up receiving Spanish meat, but the truth is I barely saw anything. Only occasionally could I glimpse her extended foot or his back in the darkness. Time felt like an eternity to me, but that may be subjective since I was pissed off. It was already late enough for me to go to bed without having to wait for them to finish their job. I sipped my Nesquik while I listened to the fucking. She was saying things in Slovak in a low voice, and he, who couldn't possibly have a clue about Slovak, just asked, " Do you like it? Do you like it? " And that was it. After a while of giving it to them, they broke up and fell asleep on the couch. Well, she was on the couch, he lay down in a faux leather armchair next to it.

Before leaving the kitchen, I checked to make sure they were asleep. He was snoring, and that was my clue that there was no danger. I crossed the living room and returned to my room. There were about forty minutes left until the alarm clock rang. " Holy crap ." I remember sending Antonio a text message on my Nokia: " Today we're eating in my cafeteria ," meaning the Law School.

I wasn't thrilled by that. Honestly. The only feeling I can recall is feeling a bit stupid for having just sat there not knowing what to do. The best part, without a doubt, was that over lunch I told Antonio about it, and the laughter helped ease the sleepiness I felt.