I Confess to What I Imagine When I’m Alone in My Bed

I’m a slightly different kind of woman, I suppose. I’m twenty-nine years old, I’m five foot four, and I’m not thin: I have wide hips, big ass, generous breasts and, yes, a bit of belly, but with a defined waist that gives me a silhouette I’m not ashamed of. I like my body. I like what it provokes. And, above all, I like the dirty thrill. I don’t just like it: I’m fascinated by it.

It’s always been that way. From a very young age I learned that what excited me most wasn’t contact, but anticipation. The idea. The word spoken at exactly the right moment. I discovered I could get a man hard without touching him, just by talking to him, just by choosing the right thing to whisper in his ear. And seeing him like that, tense, obedient, finding himself with his hand while I kept talking, left me soaking wet.

I’m telling you this because today I decided to write something I never said out loud. A real confession, unvarnished. Over the years I’ve read hundreds of stories, and my favorites were always the ones about domination. About control. Those stories where a woman loses command of herself and becomes something else, someone who exists only for desire.

I can’t fully explain why they grip me so much. There’s something about surrender that unravels me. Reading how someone describes the exact moment a woman stops deciding, when her body answers to someone else and not to herself, gives me a mix of envy and urgency unlike anything else. That’s me, I always think. I want that to be me.

I imagine myself being used, claimed, treated as if my only purpose were to give and receive pleasure. I imagine giving myself over to the point of not having to think about anything, of not deciding anything, of simply feeling. There’s a strange peace in that fantasy, a calm beneath the fire. Maybe that’s why I go back to it again and again, every night, when I turn out the light.

In real life I’m the exact opposite. I’m the one who organizes, the one who decides, the one who keeps a cool head when everyone around me is losing their way. At work they call me when there’s a problem, and I solve it. I’m responsible to the point of exhaustion. And I think that’s exactly why my mind goes to the opposite extreme when I’m finally alone: because I crave, with a hunger that never lets up, to stop carrying everything even for a little while.

There’s enormous pleasure in imagining someone else taking that load. That someone decides for me, tells me what to do and how, and my only job is to obey. That isn’t weakness. It’s the opposite: it takes a great deal of trust to surrender like that, to let go of the reins and let the body speak louder than the mind. And in my fantasies that trust is absolute.

***

But there’s another fantasy that’s been haunting me for months, and this one is different. It has nothing to do with losing control, but with an entire world where no one has to hide what they want.

I imagine a town. A small place, sunny, with quiet streets and colorful houses. And from the moment you cross the entrance, everything revolves around pleasure. There is no shame. There are no written rules about what is okay or not okay to look at. People live sex the way they live eating or walking: naturally, without guilt, without hiding.

The clothes are different there. No garments meant to cover up. Women wear minimal fabrics that barely cover what’s necessary, or they simply walk naked if they feel like it. Men go bare-chested, dressed only as much as is essential. The town’s only rule is to come ready. Ready to look, to touch, to give themselves to whoever also wants it.

In my mind, the parks in that place are full of bodies on the grass. Couples, groups, strangers who met ten minutes ago. And on the benches, for those who would rather watch than take part, there are toys available for everyone, because there no one goes wanting while watching others enjoy themselves. Watching is part of the game too. Watching and letting yourself be watched.

The restaurants especially get me in this fantasy. You walk in, sit down, and the waiter brings you two menus. One with the day’s food. The other with everything else. You choose with the same calm with which you’d order dessert. And nobody raises an eyebrow, nobody judges, because in that town desire is not a secret to be kept: it’s the air you breathe.

It turns me on so much to imagine it. So much that sometimes I catch myself developing it in my mind with absurd details, deciding what color the facades are or what the music in the square sounds like. I want to write that story someday, tell it well, give it names and characters. I don’t know if anyone would like to read it. But it burns inside me every time I think about it.

What I like most about that imaginary town isn’t sex itself. It’s the absence of guilt. It’s living in a place where nobody has to apologize for wanting, where a woman can look at whoever she wants without being called anything, where a man can approach with respect and receive a yes or a no without drama. A place where desire isn’t a dirty thing you hide, but something clean you share.

Sometimes I fantasize about arriving there myself, at the entrance to that town. Getting out of the car, setting down my bag, taking off the clothes I brought from the outside world and crossing the boundary for the first time. I imagine the heat of the sun on my bare skin, the looks that travel over me without hiding, and that new feeling of having absolutely nothing to conceal. Just thinking about it takes my breath away.

***

Right now, as I write all this to you, I’m naked in my room. Lying on my back on the sheets, with the laptop resting on my bent legs. My breasts fall slightly to the sides, one to each side, and my skin prickles every time the fan passes over me.

My legs are a little open. I haven’t touched myself yet, though I’ve been holding out for a while. I can feel it. That warm wetness that appears on its own, without permission, just from thinking about what I’m telling you and who’s going to read it. That idea turns me on more than any other: that someone, somewhere, is entering my most private thoughts right now.

I close my eyes for a second and let the fantasy come back. I imagine a mouth between my legs. I imagine a patient tongue, unhurried, knowing what it’s doing and what it’s provoking. I imagine fingers slowly making their way in, searching for that exact spot that makes my back arch, and a deep voice telling me not to hold back.

Don’t hold back, he’d say. Let go. That’s what you’re for.

And I would let go. I’d scream without measuring the volume, without thinking about the neighbors, without thinking about anything. Because in that fantasy I don’t have to decide, I don’t have to hold anything up. I only have to feel, and feel, and feel until my whole body trembles and the air escapes me in a long moan I can’t control.

As I imagine it, my hand has already moved down on its own. I didn’t fully choose it: it’s simply there, down below, moving slowly in lazy circles over my still-soft skin. I breathe deeper. The room has turned warm, thick, and the only sound is my own breathing breaking at times.

I confess I don’t know how much longer I can keep writing. I want to finish this sentence and I want not to finish it. I want to keep telling you and I want to let go of the keyboard and give myself completely to what my hand has already started without my permission. This limit is delicious, this just-before point, this tension that stretches and doesn’t break.

***

I’m going to leave you here, hanging, just like I am now. Because what comes next is no longer something to write, but something to feel alone, with my eyes closed and my imagination racing at full speed through that town where nobody hides.

Maybe next time I’ll tell you how this night ended. Or maybe I’ll tell you more about my fantasies, about surrender, about control, about all the things I’m ashamed to want and still want with all my strength. It depends on whether you got turned on reading me too. I like to think you did. I like to imagine you breathing a little faster right now, just like me.

I love you, my readers. A wet kiss wherever you need it most.

A woman who no longer has secrets.