My forehead was facing M, I felt his breath like a light breeze that came to my mouth and traversed the turtle’s landscape, softly touching everything. I awoke when an image grew exaggeratedly and, opening my eyes, my zipper was down and my hand was in my pants, squeezing my pussy. M caressed the Argentine’s body while the Argentine touched my nipples from behind, a tugging that wasn’t sharp, but in that trance, my tits felt like two little bottle caps that at any moment would be uncapped, letting liters of Fanta pour out. I became more turned on, but I told them no penetration. He laughed and started kissing my mouth while the other rubbed himself and I squeezed my pussy. He insisted on touching my iliac crests, he liked the word, he liked the bones, and he bent down to lick them while the other kept playing with my nipples and slowly licked the rim of my ears. Through wavy images going around in circles, in an anticipation that made me feel a continuity from back to front. A man in front. A man behind. A man covering my back. A man covering my mouth. A man squeezing from my ass dirty words toward the past, me sitting in the lap of some adult who, speaking close to my neck, shook my back to the point of ecstasy, the point where neck back vagina connects, the erogenous map, awake, while we watched a telenovela called La fiera. My little pussy on a knee, on a bone, getting wet. A man in front kissing my hips, close to my pussy signaling a pleasure to come, licking my uterus with a foreign tongue. Two men. That’s it. Two men, I need two men. All the holes must be filled. Managing to say, amid the daze of an ecstasy that was bodies on either side, the words escaping my mouth, tell the children the truth. Laughter. Laughter from the two of them. Laughter from the three of us. He rises, kisses my breasts while his two fingers caress the long hair of the other man who is now kissing my back. A piece of fabric. I fall asleep. When I wake up, M is naked at my side, a gleaming puddle of semen on his belly, the other has left, I’m lying with my pants still on but sensing an absence. The absence of everything. As if my holes had been uncorked for the first time. With my finger, I touch the puddle, I draw something with the semen. I get up and say I’ll take you to the airport and he says something about us, something about all the possibilities of our correspondence, the only honest affect, he tells me, is that of friendship. We leave my house, and on the highway, we listen to the radio at full volume, me again feeling the threat of loss. I drop them off at departures, M kisses me softly on the mouth and the Argentine gives me a book of poetry from Mendoza, and I get in the car and accelerate knowing I need to run, I need to go to the cave.