We were teenagers, we were fourteen and fifteen years old for those two small summer holidays. Arantxa's parents had the habit of going to a seaside town and invited me to accompany them for a week. We slept every night in the same bed, and by chance, if my skin rubbed theirs, my body would get on. When I fell asleep, my dreams led me above the scrumpbacks and in the silent masturbation games that I did with myself. But I denied this reality of flesh and bone. How would I have that friend's wishes? Didn't I want Alberto? How was he going to say it? What for? What would I explain to my parents? Tortilla? What was missing! No, no, I was heterosexual, I was in love with a boy and he would be my only lover and father of my children until the “death” was separated.

In the family, in school and in the catechesis they taught me well, in the camps nearby I did not know LTGBIQ+ people and the only thing I heard by the mouth of trusted people was the contempt and the words of insult to “these people”. To be inside the G it was necessary not to feel that I was one of them. They deliberately concealed to me that in our family there were people who had dared to relate differently. Unfortunately, when I needed that genealogy, the two were dead.

What I felt with my friend at school wasn't a transitional part of adolescence, and when it came time to go to college, there was an opportunity to start opening the doors of the closet, because the closets don't get destroyed many times from one day to the next, and meet with referents and fellow travelers who helped me in that jump. At that time, he gave me life to new friends, allies of complicity and intimacy, readings, crosses between gender, class and race, and norms that I knew, models of relationships that I couldn't contain.

Since then, years have been spent dealing with the lesbophobia that has been getting into everyday life and that which comes from outside. Anger, desire, conscience, direct action and solidarity. There hasn't been a day when you haven't had symptoms of lesbophobia. More or less subtle, everyone with the same message: you're not as it should be, you're out of place.

Since then, years have gone by sharpening shears, cutting padlocks and fences. Of the joy of life, of the passions of the body mind, of radical sweetness and of the construction of us. It hasn't happened a day when I haven't experienced any samples of that new world that we carry in our hearts. More radical or more reformist, with our contradictions, all in the same direction: We are, we are, come on!