My Fingers and the Fantasy That Won’t Let Me Sleep

I’m going to start by introducing myself, because I think that matters for understanding the rest. My name is Bianca, I’m twenty-two years old, and, hard as it may be to believe, I’ve never been with anyone. Not for lack of opportunities. By choice. A choice that each night becomes a little harder to hold on to.

The people who know me always say the same thing: that I look like a doll. I have light hair, pale skin that I try to tan in summer without much success, and a face that, according to them, doesn’t seem of this world. I’m not saying that to brag. I’m saying it because, for a long time, that doll-like facade was precisely what kept me untouched. The guys looked at me the way you look at a decoration: with the desire to have it on the shelf, not to use it.

And I don’t want to be a decoration.

The thing is, the ones who come after me are always the same. Guys my age, eager, clumsy, who talk about sex the way someone talks about a video game they haven’t finished yet. And I don’t fantasize about that. I fantasize about something else. I fantasize about an older man, with slow hands, the kind who knows how to wait. Someone over thirty who has nothing left to prove, because he proved it all years ago. Someone who would teach me, without rushing, what none of those boys would even know where to begin with.

While that man doesn’t show up, I take care of myself. And the truth is, I do it pretty well. I know my body better than anyone, I know exactly where to touch and how long to wait before giving myself what I want. There’s an advantage to patience: you learn to read your body like a map, and that map has no secrets for me.

Another thing I do a lot is read. Stories like this one, found in the middle of the night when I can’t sleep. There’s something in the words of a stranger telling what happened to them that turns me on in a way no image ever can. I imagine myself inside those stories, I change the characters, I put myself in the protagonist’s place. And almost always I end up the same way: with one hand holding the phone and the other lost beneath the sheets.

***

Tonight was one of those nights. It started like so many others: me tossing and turning in bed, sleepless, my head full of images I haven’t told anyone about. It was hot. I’d stayed in just an old T-shirt and my underwear, one of the few pieces of lingerie I bought for myself, not for anyone else to see. Black lace against white skin. I like the way it looks. I like it even more the way it feels when I run my hand over it and the fabric comes between my fingers and what I’m after for just an instant.

I locked the door. It’s a silly gesture, I live alone, but I need it. That turn of the key is the boundary between the world outside and this place where I can be exactly what I am without asking permission. I turned off the light. I left only the hallway light leaking in beneath the door, a thin orange line across the floor.

Tonight I want to take my time.

I started slowly, over the fabric. Just the tips of my fingers brushing, feeling more the idea than the contact. I closed my eyes and let the image build itself, as it always does. The man. He doesn’t have a fixed face, he keeps changing, but he has hands. Large, warm hands that would have no hurry at all to get where mine are now.

I slid my fingers over the lace to confirm something I already knew: I was wet. Wet enough for the fabric to feel different, heavy. I smiled in the dark. My body always moves faster than my mind, and I like that, because it means this isn’t a decision, it’s a necessity.

I slipped my underwear off without rushing, hooking it with one foot until I tossed it to the side of the bed. The air in the room touched where the fabric had been and my whole skin broke out in gooseflesh. I have nipples that love to harden at the slightest change, and this time was no exception. I ran my free hand over my chest, slowly, playing with that hardness while the other hand went lower.

The first direct touch always draws a sigh from me. I can’t help it. My fingers, already slick, slid effortlessly to my clit and I began with soft, circular movements, just enough to keep the tension without setting it off. It’s a delicate balance. Too fast and it’s over before it starts. Too slow and my mind drifts. You have to find the exact point, and I know it by heart.

***

In my head, the man was no longer watching. He was close. So close I could imagine his breath on my neck, that measured breathing of someone who knows he has the whole night. Don’t rush, he told me without saying it. And I listened.

I lowered my fingers a little, to my entrance. It’s the place where fantasy and reality brush against each other, because there my body reminds me of what it hasn’t tried yet. One finger fits. Just one. I’ve tried with two before, the few times I was very aroused, but I can’t take it: I’m tight, too tight, and my body makes that clear. So with that one finger I started pressing slowly, feeling the slightest give, imagining it wasn’t my finger but the beginning of something much larger.

I curved the finger forward, searching for that internal spot that makes me forget my name. I found it. A warm tug shot up through my belly and another sigh escaped me, longer this time. From time to time I pulled the finger out, not for any particular reason, just because I like it. I like testing myself. I brought the tip to my mouth and sucked it slowly. It’s a taste I’m not ashamed of. It’s mine.

In the fantasy, the man was chuckling softly at the sight of me doing that. Look at you, he said. And I let myself be looked at.

I was very hot, hotter than on other nights, so I allowed myself something I don’t always do. I took the other hand behind me and, with one barely damp finger, pressed gently against my asshole. Not to go in all the way, just to feel filled on both sides at once. I like that sensation of being full, of not having a single inch of my body that isn’t asking for attention. And it worked: the wetness increased, the tension in my belly grew thicker, almost painfully good.

I stayed like that for a long while. Two hands, two rhythms, the image of the man growing clearer and clearer. This time I gave him a voice. A deep voice that whispered things in my ear, things I’d be embarrassed to repeat in real life but that in the darkness of my room made my back arch.

***

I could feel I was close. I know because I start breathing differently, short and broken, and because my legs tense up on their own. So I did what I always do at the end: I pulled my fingers out, left the rest alone, and gave all my attention to my clit. Only to it.

I started again with soft movements, almost teasing myself, knowing what was coming. Then I began to build. Faster. Firmer. The man’s image fell apart because I didn’t need it anymore; I was already in that place where there is no thought, only body. I clenched my teeth not to make a sound, even though I live alone and no one would hear me. It’s habit. Or maybe I like the silence right before.

And then it came.

I came with a force that surprised me. My whole body clenched, my hips lifted off the bed without my deciding it, and I felt everything release all at once. On nights when I’m this aroused, I come soaking everything: the sheets, my thighs, my hand. I stayed trembling, eyes closed, listening to my own breathing slowly return to normal.

Then came the part I like most, the part almost no one talks about. That calm. That feeling of having gotten somewhere all by myself, owing nothing to anyone. I ran my fingers over the wetness that was left and, as I always do, brought them to my tongue. I like my taste. I’m not the least bit ashamed to say it.

***

The funny thing is, tonight I had planned to write something else. I was going to tell a made-up story, with characters and a crafted ending. But as soon as I started typing, the words began to heat me up, and by the time I realized it I already had one hand far from the keyboard and my mind somewhere else. So instead of inventing, I ended up telling you this: what really happened to me a little while ago, exactly as it was.

And now that I’ve written it, I’m restless again. Because no matter how well I take care of myself—and I really do take care of myself well—there’s something my fingers can’t give me: surprise. Not knowing what comes next. The weight of another body deciding for me. That man I imagine still has no face, but each night I spend like this, I want him a little more real.

Maybe one day he’ll show up. Maybe I’ve already crossed paths with him in the street without knowing it. In the meantime, the lock is still thrown, the light is still off, and one single finger is enough to take me where no boy my age ever knew how to lead me.

Tell me: did you like it? How do you think the first time for someone like me should be?