AFTER THE THREESOME, I CHOSE HIS COUSIN

By Evelyn

We had gone dancing with some friends; it was pretty hot, and we had just finished high school—that is, we had graduated.

Most of us enrolled in college.

I decided to pursue a teaching degree in math.

I really like teaching, and I’m very good with numbers.

Isa, my best friend, so to speak, also decided to pursue a teaching degree, but in her case, it’s in literature.

She prefers the humanities, and I prefer numbers.

Even though our tastes in what we chose to study were quite different, it’s inexplicable how we always—or at least most of the time—liked the same guys.

The kind of clothes we liked were also similar; we dressed very sexy and eye-catching.

We’d constantly compete to see who was dressed more eye-catching, who got more compliments, and who got stared at more on the street.

Physically, we aren’t that different.

We’re both slim with blonde hair that’s waist-length; we both have cute ponytails and medium-sized busts, and we wear the same clothing and shoe sizes.

My hair is ash blonde and hers is a bit more on the brown side, while Isa has light brown eyes and I have light blue ones—sometimes my eyes look green.

My sister does have a more distinct shade of light blue, but Jaky, my sister, has dark brown hair and is just a little bit thinner than me.

She’s five years older than me and is a math teacher—that must be why I chose that major too; Jaky is often my inspiration.

My sister has been in a relationship for three years; frankly, I can’t stand her boyfriend—I really, really dislike him. She’s so refined, so delicate, so beautiful, and he’s… the complete opposite. He works in a lathe shop—I’m not exactly sure what that entails—and his hands are always covered in grease, or at least that’s the impression he gives me. He’s big; she says he’s muscular, but to me he looks fat and doesn’t have the best appearance.

I don’t understand how she can be in love with that man.

Sometimes, when her boyfriend goes fishing with friends, my sister comes with us to dance.

Not today, though—today she was with her boyfriend.

We almost always went to the same place to dance; it was like a routine.

First, we’d walk about four blocks down an avenue, passing guys who were probably heading to the same dance spot as us, even though it was an area full of bars and nightclubs, then we’d always grab a drink at a small bar that spilled out onto the sidewalk with tables—and even some in the street—narrowing the space for traffic, so all the cars had to go at a snail’s pace. Between the limited space and the young people crossing the street without paying attention to traffic, drivers had to be very careful not to run anyone over.

At the nightclub or dance club, everyone called it whatever they wanted, and they even argued about what the correct name should be. My friends and I danced on a small dance floor, making up steps as we moved to the beat of the music.

That’s what we were doing when a guy came up to me and asked me to dance.

I said yes—he was really cute.

But first, my competitive side—look at my friend Isa.

She was checking him out; she liked him.

We always liked the same guys, and this time was no exception.

I went to dance with that guy on the big dance floor.

We ended up in a private booth, kissing like crazy; his hands wouldn’t stop touching me. I wanted to slow him down because the venue’s security guards were constantly patrolling—they did it all the time to prevent some young people from having sex. It wasn’t a hotel, but some people just didn’t get it.

His kisses were hot and passionate.

I spent almost the entire night with him.

I met up with my friends when it was time to go home.

Omar—that was the guy’s name—and I agreed to talk so we could meet up.

We met up that week; we went out to dinner, and nothing more happened besides a few magical kisses. He had a motorcycle and drove me home.

My mom set curfews for me, especially on weekdays, because my dad got up early and was a light sleeper—if he heard us come home late and then couldn’t fall back asleep, he’d be in a bad mood all day the next day.

My dad also didn’t like it when my sister’s boyfriend stayed over late; I think it’s because he really couldn’t stand him either.

Jaky didn’t make much noise when he was with his boyfriend in our living room—I think I made more noise, listening to music.

The following Saturday, I went dancing at that club again, and at the corner bar we ran into Omar—the guy I’d sort of started dating. I was with my friends, Isa, Fernanda, and Soledad; usually the four of us would get together to go to that club on Saturday nights.

Omar showed up with some friends of his—a guy named Liam, Sergio, and Hugo.

We all stayed there chatting.

At one point, I noticed that Isa couldn’t take her eyes off Omar, and he was looking at her, too.

On many occasions, when I’d tell her I liked a guy, she’d end up kissing him, and I have to admit that I often kissed guys I knew she liked—not because of that, but because I liked them too. But neither of us ever took the other’s feelings into account; it was almost as if we were happy to win that unspoken competition.

Everything was a competition between us.

Anyway, Omar kept kissing and hugging me.

Just as we were about to go into the nightclub, Omar asked me if we could go somewhere else.

I saw Isa still staring at him, and it really annoyed me, so I told Omar yes.

I told my friends we were leaving, that I wasn’t going into the nightclub that night.—I’m

on my motorcycle.

We got to the parking lot, and just like last time, he handed me a helmet. I put it on and wrapped my arms around him to ride on the motorcycle; I wasn’t quite sure where we were going, though I didn’t rule out the possibility that it might be a love hotel or somewhere similar.

It didn’t take us much more than 15 minutes to reach a building—a pretty luxurious one.

We went in to park the motorcycle, and before heading to a private elevator, Omar greeted the doorman.—I live

here; we’ll be more comfortable.

He winked at me.

I followed him, thinking that I didn’t really trust him enough to go all the way to his apartment.

He didn’t seem like some pervert who was going to kill me.

I’m careful about the places I go.

Well, maybe not that careful, because Omar seemed gorgeous to me, but this was only the third time I’d seen him. “I live

alone, and I swear I don’t have 10 friends hiding here to gang-rape you.”

He must have read my mind when he clarified that for me.

I smiled at him, and he kissed me—of course, I kissed him back.

We got there right away; he lived on the third floor of that building.

There were two apartments per floor; everything was very opulent, very lavish.

The apartment was quite large—at least from what I’d seen so far; the living-dining room must have been about 10 meters long by four wide.

We went to the kitchen, where he grabbed two glasses, and then we went to a corner of the living room. There was something like a minibar there, and he poured two glasses of whiskey. I added cola-style soda to mine, but I didn’t finish it either.

Omar, on the other hand, finished the contents of his glass in a couple of sips.

From what I gathered the day we went out to dinner, he lived alone; his parents were separated and had each found new partners. He had two brothers—one on his father’s side and one on his mother’s—both of whom were my age, 18, and I learned that he doesn’t have much contact with his brothers.

His father had bought him the apartment; he was a lawyer, and Omar was following in his footsteps—he was studying law.

He worked at his father’s law firm.

I think he has a better relationship with his father than with his mother.

It wasn’t as if we talked about many personal topics, and when we did, we didn’t delve deeply into any of them.

We kissed a lot, and of course, we made love. He’s affectionate and passionate; he made me feel a way I’d never felt with any other guy.

It’s not that I had a lot of experience—I was 18 and had been with three other guys.