Masturbation

By day, I seemed like the most innocent of all. By night, behind a closed door, I discovered a version of myself no one would ever have imagined.

When I opened the door to breathe the wet air, someone jumped the wall. He was naked, he wouldn’t give me his name, and my husband was still sleeping inside the house, knowing nothing.

Half an hour ago I opened my email with my legs already restless. I wanted to know how many had jerked off thinking about me. There were more than I expected.

I left them by the washing machine like just another garment, but the moment I brought them to my nose I knew that woman had planned everything from the start.

I had never taken my blouse off outdoors. My pulse was racing and my hands were trembling, but something in me needed to know what it felt like for a stranger to be able to look at me.

I’ve been sleeping alone for months. But when insomnia hits, I end up with her on top of me again, moaning my name like before everything fell apart.

In front of the screen, with a cloth between my teeth so I wouldn’t scream, I obeyed every order from a man whose face I never saw. And I’d do it again.

Eight years had passed since the last time I undressed in front of that camera. That night I turned it on again, and on the other side the same man was still waiting for me.

He asked me from the screen and I obeyed: open the window, let the clothes fall, and let those men watch me without shame.

That morning there was no one at home to hear me. Only the mirror, my heels, and the voice of a man living inside my head.

It all started with a picture on my phone. Ten days later I can’t get out of bed without thinking about when I’ll get to touch myself again.

I adore the nap when I’m alone at home. Today the chill of the storm raised my skin, and without realizing it, all I could think about was the way you’d look at me.

It’s raining, no one’s home, and the series I put on to fall asleep turned into something else. Then I remembered where I kept my red toy.

It was ten in the morning, I was alone at home, and I could only think about his hands. Today, at last, we’d be alone, and I needed to calm what he’d awakened in me.

The son of a bitch had used her own body as inspiration, and now she was trembling in front of the screen, not knowing whether what she felt was anger or desire.

I kept it in my bag because I was in a hurry, but that afternoon I took it out for another reason: I was alone, bored, and way too horny to hold back.

I’d spent the whole day with my underwear damp just thinking about what was waiting for me at home. The box was still closed on the bed, and I couldn’t take it anymore.

She thought about him all day. Now, under the sheets and with rain tapping the window, her hand begins to trace what her imagination had already promised.

I never had privacy for anything. That afternoon, on an empty bench with my skirt pulled up, I understood I could finally do exactly what I wanted.

I had never touched myself. That afternoon, behind a badly closed door, I understood why my body had spent years asking me for something I never dared give it.