The Balcony Bet

I'm thirty-three years old and I got into a masturbation bet in Barcelona. That's where I'm starting this story because that's honestly where it starts.

Here's how it happened. Day three of our trip, Jose and I are at this little tapas place off the Ramblas, and I ordered the croquetas. He says I pointed at the wrong thing, that I actually ordered the fried anchovies, and the waiter just ran with it. I say he was the one who waved the menu around and said "si, si, todo" like a man ordering bricks. We argued about it walking home. We argued about it in the shower. By nine o'clock we were arguing about who knows whose body better, which makes no sense as an argument, but heat does things to people. It was ninety-one degrees that day and our Airbnb has no real air conditioning, just one sad wall unit in the living room that cools about four square feet.

So there I am, sitting on the bed in my underwear, fanning myself with a takeout menu, and I say something dumb like "please, I know your body better than you do."

And Jose, who is thirty-four and freelance and has never once backed down from a stupid position, says, "Prove it."

I said prove what.

He says, "First one to make the other come. Using only your voice and one toy. No touching the other person. Loser plans the rest of the itinerary, including the Sagrada Familia at eight in the morning."

Wait, that's the wrong order. Let me back up, because the bet didn't come out fully formed like that. It came out in pieces while we were both being stubborn, and each piece was dumber than the last.

First he just said prove it, and I laughed, and then he said, "I bet I can make you come without laying a finger on you," and my face got hot in a way that had nothing to do with the weather. I should have dropped it. Two years with this man, I was at the pool in Miami where he was shooting a resort brochure, I was thirty-one, he asked if I'd ever had a swim cap that fit, and that was it. Two years. You'd think I'd know when to fold.

Instead I said, "Fine, but it goes both ways. You're not the only one who knows things."

He sat up on the other side of the bed like I'd challenged him to chess. "Rules, then."

He loved making rules. This is a man who reads Terms and Conditions.

We settled on it over the next twenty minutes, mostly while he was stealing my water. One toy each, picked from the travel bag we'd both packed and pretended not to notice each other packing. Voice only. No touching the other person, not even through a door. Loser does the itinerary. And because the apartment is a cramped one bedroom in the Gothic Quarter with walls like paper, we'd be in separate rooms. Me in the bedroom, him in the living room, door shut between us. Balcony windows wide open because it was July and closing them meant dying, and also because Jose said that was part of the fun, which I chose not to examine too closely.

The neighbor's cat kept wandering in off the balcony the whole time we were negotiating. This huge orange thing, no collar, acts like it pays rent. It sat on the dresser and watched us set rules for a sex bet, which felt about right for this trip.

"Pick your toy," Jose said. "Then doors shut. I go first or you go first?"

"Ladies first," I said, and he said something in Spanish that I'm pretty sure was not a compliment.

So I dug through the bag and pulled out the little clit vibrator, the pink bullet one, the reliable one. Don't judge, we were traveling, you pack essentials. Jose held up his own pick and I genuinely cackled. The prostate massager. The black one with the remote. He'd smuggled it through customs in a sock.

"You brought that to Europe," I said.

"Essentials," he said, wiggling it at me.

"Fine. Rules again. One toy each. Voice only. No touching. Door shut. First one to come loses."

"Wins," he said. "First one to come wins the right to be smug."

"First one to come loses the itinerary, that's the deal."

Deal. We shook on it, which is hilarious in hindsight, two adults in underwear shaking hands over a bet like it's a lawn sale.

He took the living room. I took the bedroom. The door between us is one of those old Spanish interior doors, solid wood but with a gap at the bottom big enough for the cat, who immediately took this as an invitation and trotted through before I could shut it. I picked her up, put her out on the balcony, and she came back in through the open window in about nine seconds. Eventually I just let her sit on the dresser. If she was going to be a witness, fine.

I sat on the bed. The street below was doing full Barcelona evening, scooters, somebody's radio playing flamenco too loud, the tapas bar two floors down with its shutters open. Every sound in our apartment goes straight out and every sound down there comes straight up. I could hear Jose settling into the couch, springs complaining.

"Ready?" he called through the door.

"Born ready!"

His voice came again, lower. "Then listen. Close your eyes."

I closed them, holding the little bullet against my thigh, not on anything yet, just waiting. He started slow, describing what he'd do if he were in the room, his hands, his mouth, the order he'd go in. The man has photographed women professionally for a decade, he knows how to narrate, I'll give him that. He got to the part about my neck and my skin prickled for real, and I hated how easy it was working.

Then I remembered the plan I'd formed while he was making rules. I don't speak Spanish. But I know six phrases, and four of them are about food, and one is "good morning," and the last one I learned off a bathroom wall in Miami. I turned the bullet on low and pressed it against my clit and started talking.

"Quiero... la croquetas," I said, slow and breathy. "Muy grande. Con... salsa."

There was a beat of silence through the door. Then Jose lost it. Full laughter, the kind that bounces off the courtyard downstairs.

"That's the tapas menu!" he shouted.

"Shh! Voice only. You're ruining my concentration." I rubbed the little vibe in slow circles, because honestly the laughter had loosened something in me, and thinking about his face pressed to the door trying not to crack up was doing more for me than his neck monologue had.

The cat jumped off the dresser, padded to the door gap, and sat there with her tail through it like a periscope.

"Are you cheating?" Jose called. "It sounds like you're doing something over there."

"I am doing... la paella," I breathed. "Extra grande. Ohhh, la paella."

"Casey."

"Focus on your own... sock situation."

I heard the couch creak, heard him huff, heard the snap of the lube cap and the click of his toy turning on. Good. Let him work. I had a menu, a bullet vibrator, a cat, and six words of Spanish, and I was going to win this stupid bet out of pure spite.

Jose got quiet for a while, which was smart of him, because my paella bit had knocked him off his rhythm and he needed to reset. I could hear the low hum of his toy through the door and I tried not to think about it. I tried not to think about what