Tonight, I Love Me.


A love story with myself.

As I stare at myself in the mirror, finishing up my skincare routine, I see the lines that have become a permanent reminder of my life looking back. The times I loved a lot, and the times I loved not at all. As I gently glide my moisturizer on my skin with my fingertips, I consider what other parts of my body tell my stories of love. About the love I've had, the love I've given, and the love I loved to have, even for just one instance.

I decide it’s time to feel the cool sheets against my bare body. There isn’t much to undress, my usual bedtime outfit, a large tee and underwear that shapes my cheeks just right. I take off both and watch them flop on the floor. Tiptoeing to my room, I get to the edge and lift open the duvet covering my bed, feeling the chill of the soft cotton sheet glide against my now hard nipples.

Who is this body that I so often leave in my afterthoughts? Where are the curves that hold me tight as I sit at my desk, the marks and scars and deep lines that have listened to me complain year after year without fail? And where is my desire hiding? I lift my legs and slide my feet flat on the bed, spread apart, letting the sudden wave of air wake me up, reminding me it's not time to sleep.

I circle my nipple with the middle finger on my left hand, slowly turning, slowly reminding myself of the stories my body has to offer. My right hand slides down. I know where I want it, but I have to wait. Not yet, I tell myself. Let’s treat this moment with care and like we have all the time in the world.

I feel around, bringing the wetness from inside to out. I spread myself open with two fingers and glide a third one all around. I know the end to this story but urge myself to be patient, pulling my nipple harder and sliding myself in.

I have no thoughts. I am lost in my own senses. My delicate skin feeling itself, my fingertips traveling at their own speed, to their own destinations, my breath deep and without pause. I can't stop feeling myself, but I know I want more; I crave more.

I lean over, sliding open the drawer next to my bed, and pull out something rubbery and the color of rustic red or maybe orange. It came with a name once, but now it's mine. I am the only one with a name, and it is here for me.

I get it wet with me. My hands and it work together as one. I can't tell which hand is where, which finger the pressure is coming from, or where one caress ends and vibration begins. I do not think about me. I do not think about you. I do not think at all. I breathe in, breathe out, and let myself come, finally, and without restraint. Damn, I’m good. And for a moment, I realize my greatest love story is with me, myself. Because the moment I realize I know exactly what I want, without a single thought, I know I can love me, just the way I need.


A Self Studies Written Pleasure production in collaboration with 






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