Solo Pleasure with Carly II

I only have one tattoo. It’s just a word, “storm” written in my messy cursive (actually sometimes people can’t figure out what it says, which makes it feel like a secret.) It’s from the song Storms on the album, Tusk, by Fleetwood Mac. My best friend told me to listen to the song when I was going through a break up, she’s so wise. There’s a line ​​”never have I been a blue calm sea, I have always been a storm”. It told me there’s a rich history of heartbroken women, women who rage, and women who are wistful. It told me that the way I have always been is okay, that knowing what you have always been is better. It told me to shout it from the mountains. To tattoo it on my skin. This I did. At that time, falling apart over a failed relationship wasn’t uncommon for me. And it unfortunately continued to kinda be my thing for another ten years or so. When I finally reached a breaking point and started taking medication, my identity was so wrapped up in chaos I’m still struggling, years later, to make sense of who I am, now that I am more of a blue calm sea. I think I preferred my storm-like qualities, even if she was sometimes miserable. Is it a gift or a curse to feel things so deeply?

And what is a storm like? Just yesterday, I watched a friend shrink at the sound of thunder during a rainstorm, her eyes wide, fearful. To me, thunderstorms are beautiful. Threatening, yes. They remind me of power and anger from a force beyond us. They remind me of helplessness and succumbing to a powerful force we can’t control—chaotic, dark, loud, but ultimately fleeting.

I want to experience desire again. I want to feel helpless to what my body needs. I want my pussy to lead me, destroying everything in her path, fearless and insatiable. Does anything make you feel more alive than desiring someone? Than knowing someone desires you? Ferociously. What if I were to channel that into deeply desiring myself?

Masturbation for me right now is less about satisfying a physical need and more about reconnecting with my sexual self, a shade that’s not always present. 

I need to walk around in cool air, wearing a skirt and no underwear. I need to feel the breeze touch my lips, and let the chill electrify me. Become acutely aware of my thighs swishing together, the openness I feel being exposed. The way my ass moves the fabric in my wake. Let the light rubbing and reorganizing of walking inspire me to put a little more bounce in each step. The rubbing intensifies. And the way it feels once wetness spreads and gets touched by outside air! Mmm.

I need to swim without a top on to feel public water on untouched skin, let my boobs float, try to save my life. I think of the hotel upstate, the lobby was long and winding, it was like an abandoned mall, but carpeted. The pool was indoors, as if it was an auditorium at a convention center. I didn’t have a bathing suit, and I wasn’t about to wear my bra in chlorine. It was late, no one around, but conspicuously indoors in the open. I dipped in with my top on, then slowly untied the wrap, letting the fabric become heavy with water. Thick, lined cotton. A weight to be released. I did the breast stroke then (I had to) my breasts glowing white in the pool lights.

When you discover something really lovely, do you tell other people, or do you keep it as a secret with yourself?

Light a candle, because it is a prayer. Get on your knees, because that is how you pray. Arrange a mirror so you can watch your body, or at least your face as you cum, how else are you going to have sex with you? Wear silk, feathers, anything that surprises your skin like the drip of cool condensation. Set an intention, a word or phrase you can revert to if your mind wanders away from your sensations. Mine will be “look at me”. Practice it in your head. Practice it aloud: “look at me.” 

Hand over my heart, I slide it down between my breasts, cupping and lifting one, squeeze, then the other, squeeze, release. Take my middle finger, and dip it slowly in my mouth, let my tongue soak it, then bring it to my nipple, barely touching, softly touching. Again. Dip, soak, touch.

I squeeze lube into a dripping line along my middle and pointer finger, then make my way down to my lips, run my fingers over, teasing at my hole, then slowly back up to my clit, a soft, tickling touch.

I’m on my knees, legs spread, my pussy exposed, circling my hips. When I dip into my pussy, I let myself bounce a little, let myself push onto my fingers, to feel myself spreading around them. I like to fuck myself a bit, fingers sliding in and out, until I want to ly down and keep rolling my hips until I cum. I’m not going to cum tonight. You’re not going to cum tonight, I tell myself in the mirror. This is how I’ll heighten my desire, I’ll be my own edger, my own monk. Accidental celibacy is one thing, aroused orgasm denial is another.

Do I trust myself enough to use my vibrator and take it away before I cum? 

I don’t. 

I start gliding over my clit, fingers wet with lube, but barely grazing, a perpetual tease, until my pussy begs for penetration and I let my fingers slip in again, then when I get close, bring them up to squeeze a nipple. I watch this constellation being formed, the way my hand travels like she owns the place.

Do this until you cum. Do this and don’t let yourself cum. 

Touch yourself until you feel alive, feel electrified, or spent, until you fall asleep.

But don’t stop there—

Whisper to yourself that you’ve done a nice job. Rub your dog’s velvety ear. Leave the bed and take the covers. Walk around the house with your comforter wrapped around your shoulders like a snow queen. Take a bath, because it’s the closest your boobs will come to floating in a pool.