The Afternoon I Learned to Touch Myself in Front of the Mirror

I was never the kind of woman who kept things to herself. At twenty-four, I had a job I liked, my own apartment, which I had proudly signed for two months earlier, and a group of friends who loved me. And yet there was one subject I never talked about: I had never touched myself. Not once. Not in passing. Not out of curiosity. Nothing.

I grew up in a house where the bathroom door was locked with two turns and where my mother referred to parts of my body with absurd euphemisms. When I moved out on my own, I thought something would change simply because I was surrounded by silence. It didn’t. My body was still untouched, and so was the shame.

The afternoon everything changed, there was nothing special on my schedule. A long meeting with the marketing team, a rushed lunch, and an argument with Mateo, my desk mate, about a typeface for a client. Mateo was thirty-two, with defined arms, a close-cropped beard, and a scent of soap and bergamot that filled half the room whenever he sat beside me.

“Let me see,” he said, resting his hand on the back of my chair and leaning closer to look at the screen.

I stayed still. His chest brushed my shoulder. I felt the heat of his body through his shirt. It was a second, two at most, and yet something traveled down my spine to the very depths of my body, where it stayed vibrating.

“It’s fine like that, yeah,” I said without turning my head.

He went back to his place. It took me five minutes to realize I was soaked.

That couldn’t be it. Not me. Not like that.

I went into the office bathroom, locked myself in, and took a deep breath. With my fingertips, through the fabric of my pants, I pressed myself where I was throbbing. Just pressing. Not touching. My underwear was stuck to my skin, warm and wet, and when I realized it, the blood rushed to my face. I went back to my desk without looking at anyone.

Camila, my best friend, replied to my message before I had even finished writing it.

“Tell me, what happened?” she said as soon as I answered, already outside on the sidewalk.

I told her everything. I told her about Mateo, the brush of his body, the wetness, the panic. Camila laughed with that hoarse cackle she let out when she was about to say something outrageous.

“Renata, listen to me carefully. It’s the most normal thing in the world. You’re turned on. Period. Go home, lock the door, and touch yourself.”

“I…” I swallowed. “I’ve never done it.”

There was a brief silence. Then she spoke softly, without making fun of me.

“Then do it now. It’s easier than you think. Start by looking at yourself. Seriously. Get naked, find a big mirror, and look at yourself for a long while. Then start with your hand, gently, without rushing, right at the top, on your clitoris. Don’t hurry anything. When you feel like you’re about to come, stop. Then start again. You’ll know what to do on your own.”

“What if I can’t?”

“You will. And you’ll tell me.”

I hung up dizzy, my heart pounding against my ribs. I got to the apartment, locked the door twice, lowered the blinds, and turned on only the bedside lamp. The light fell across the wooden floor like a warm carpet.

I stood in front of the dressing-room mirror.

I took off my jacket. I took off my shirt. I stood looking at myself for an incredibly long time in my bra and pants, as if I were seeing myself for the first time. Then I pulled off my pants, my panties, and my underwear and placed them all on the chair. When I was done, I was naked in front of my reflection, my hands hanging at my sides.

I had small breasts, dark nipples, a flat stomach with a fine line of hair descending to a neat pubic mound. Firm thighs. My ass was a little fuller than seemed fair to me. I brought my hands to my tits and pinched my nipples without thinking. They were hard, sensitive. I let out a sigh I hadn’t planned.

All right. Now we’re talking.

I lay down on the bed, with the lamp behind me and the mirror in front of me. I spread my legs so I could look at myself. I was shiny, swollen, red. I touched myself with my middle finger, barely, and my finger came away wet to the knuckle. The first time I saw my fingers like that, a nervous laugh escaped me. I didn’t know whether I was scared or turned on.

I began as Camila had told me. Gentle circles. Right at the top, over that throbbing spot. At first I could barely feel anything because my nerves had me stiff. Then, little by little, the movement became automatic and my body began to respond. My back curved without me meaning it to. My hips opened wider. My nipples grew even harder.

I ran my other hand over my stomach, over my breasts, and squeezed one of my tits hard. I liked it. I liked it so much that I arched and let out a short moan toward the ceiling. I had never made a sound like that before. It sounded foreign, and it sounded good.

I went faster. My clitoris throbbed beneath my finger, each circle slicker than the last. I realized I was breathing through my mouth, in short bursts, as if I had just been running. My hips moved on their own, seeking my finger, pressing against my hand.

A strange pressure built in my lower belly. A pressure that wanted to get out. I got scared and stopped. I lifted my hand into the air, my finger glistening, and stared at the ceiling until my heart settled.

***

I tried something different. I turned over and got on all fours on the bed, facing the mirror. Seeing myself like that, my hair falling over my shoulders, my tits hanging and my ass raised, turned me on more than I expected. I reached between my legs from behind and rubbed myself again. The position changed everything. My pussy felt fuller, heavier, and my finger reached new places.

I took a risk. I slowly pushed one finger inside, to the second knuckle. It hurt a little, the tiniest tug, and then the muscle relaxed and swallowed my entire finger. I let out a long whimper into the pillow. I began moving it slowly, back and forth, while my other hand kept searching for my clitoris.

That was when the image appeared on its own.

Mateo. His hand on the back of my chair. His chest against my shoulder. Only now there was no chair. There was me, on all fours just as I was, and him behind me, gripping my waist with those big hands. I imagined him slowly lowering his pants, taking out his cock and pressing it against my ass, warm and hard. I imagined him plunging it into me without asking, all the way in, and grabbing my hair to arch my back.

“Oh, fuck,” I whispered, biting the sheet.

I inserted a second finger. I opened myself a little wider than I could take, and I liked that burning sensation. In my fantasy, Mateo fucked me from behind with hard thrusts, shaking my body, squeezing one of my tits with one hand and my clitoris with the other. I moved my hand to the rhythm he made me move to in my head, and I could no longer tell whether the pleasure was mine, his, or both of ours.

I changed positions again. I threw myself onto my back, with the mirror at my side. I raised my knees, spread them wide, and planted my feet on the mattress. Seeing myself reflected like that, open, my fingers sliding in and out, glistening, drew another moan from me. I wasn’t embarrassed by the noise anymore. I wasn’t embarrassed by anything anymore.

The fantasy changed. Now Mateo wasn’t behind me; he was on top. He stared straight at me while he slowly pushed his cock inside me, all the way in. He spoke into my ear. He said filthy things in a low, hoarse voice. In the real bed, I moaned every time the imaginary voice told me, “That’s it, baby, open up,” or “You’re going to be mine all night.” I answered him out loud, alone in my room, without shame.

“Fuck me,” I said to the air. “Fuck me harder.”

My clitoris throbbed like a little heart between my legs. My fingers weren’t enough anymore. I reached blindly for the rounded tip of the brush handle on the nightstand. I grabbed it, positioned it, and without thinking, brought it down between my legs. I slowly inserted the smooth tip, just a little, then a little farther. It didn’t hurt. I felt an enormous tingling rise through me.

I started moving it as if it were him. With my other hand, I kept rubbing my clitoris faster and faster. The bed, the room, the mirror—everything shrank down to those two points: the one pushing inside and the one burning outside.

The pressure from before returned, stronger now. This time I didn’t stop it. I let it come. I arched my whole body, my thighs tensed, and my breath caught in my chest for one long moment. I let out a hoarse cry against the walls of my apartment and came with a shudder that traveled from the nape of my neck to my feet. I felt something warm wet my hand, the sheet, and the insides of my thighs.

I lay there trembling, my chest rising and falling, staring through half-closed lashes at the ceiling. It took an incredibly long time before I felt fully back in my body.

***

When I came down from heaven, still resting on my own hand, I turned to look at myself in the mirror. My skin was stained, my hair stuck to my forehead, my mouth was open, and I wore a smile I had never seen before. I let out a short, disbelieving laugh and covered my face with my arm.

I got into a hot shower and stood beneath the water for a long while. I wasn’t thinking about Mateo or Camila or work. I was thinking about myself. About the woman I had seen in the mirror. About how I had spent my whole life with that woman inside me and never known her.

When I came out, wrapped in a towel, I sent a short voice message.

“Cami. It’s done.”

She replied with a string of emojis and a promise of dinner so I could tell her everything in detail. I threw myself onto the bed, still damp, and fell asleep without turning off the lamp.

That night I dreamed about the office, the scent of bergamot, Mateo’s big hands. I woke at four in the morning, wet again, and did it all over. More slowly, more confidently, without the mirror, my eyes closed. I pushed three fingers inside me and pressed my clitoris with the palm of my other hand. I came twice in a row and slept like a rock.

The next day at the office, Mateo rested his hand on the back of my chair again. I looked at him over my shoulder and smiled slowly. I still didn’t know whether I was going to fuck him or not. But for the first time in my life, I knew exactly what I wanted.