How did I get this tired? My limbs are made of lead, my chest of glass, my spine bored brittle by safe choices and bland ambitions. There've been a few false starts and bitter splits, both platonic and romantic. The last one sucked me dry.
Yet, I have a comfortable life, with a comfortable job—for which I am grateful in this uncomfortable economy. I live close to the city in a comfortable apartment. Everything within it boasts a neat palette of beiges and blues.
Even now, it's a comfortable time of night. Several hours after work, several hours before bed. I feed my blue cat and scratch his small cheek. He purrs against my knuckle.
I begin to draw a hot bath and fill it with scented crystals. I admire the way the low light refracts off the cool, gleaming tiles and catches at the tiny rose-hued shards as I pour them into the turbulent water. I hum to myself and imagine I'm filling my bath with diamonds.
It's been too long since I took time to just... think. Recently, I've been doing my best to avoid it.
I set my phone on the ceramic sink and put on some music. Classical. Comfortable. The sound irritates me. The beautiful string harmonics set my teeth on edge. I'm so tired of being comfortable. I switch tracks.
I search out a genre of music beyond my standard taste. As I begin to peel off my corporate outerwear like layers of skin, I feel the new beat thrumming through me, pulling at the threads of feelings I'd forgotten were there, hiding in the quiet corners. I feel awake.
I pay attention to the elegant detail as steam curls around me, like a teasing lover. I unzip my skirt and allow it to fall to the floor. I feel the cool, dampening rustle of satin against my skin as I drag my blouse up and over my head, languishing in the exaggerated movement. The bath is halfway full. The crystals have clustered near the plug, swirling in the mild currents of the tap's jet. I rub my stockinged thighs together, bouncing to the music as I bend to coax the crystals into a tighter swirl, coercing them to release their perfume.
Even alone in my own bathroom, I feel slightly exposed as I bend, displaying my thinly-clothed vagina to my bathroom mirror. I think of how my ex would stand behind me and run her hand between—No. No, I can't give that thought enough rope, or it'll hang me.
She's gone. It's fine. I'm fine. I splash my face with bathwater. I can almost pretend I'm not crying.
I want to shut off the water and unplug the drain, to crawl to my bed and bury myself in the dark, to sleep through another month.
But a deep and sudden rage clenches my hands into fists and locks my teeth together. All the hurt, all the sadness, all the doubt and insecurity and frustration that I've felt for months combusts, setting my apathy on fire.
I don't need her hand. I have my own.
I deliberately stretch into the bend, slowly relaxing into the feeling of raw arousal. I look over my shoulder to view myself. My stockings shimmer in the muted glow of the bathroom light. Even with black underwear I can see the distinct outline of my vulva as I bend even further over the tub, continuing to stroke at the water with one hand.
The sight of my own body at such angles excites me. I see my face flushing in the steam, my lips plumping with the moist heat, soft strands of hair frizzing into ringlets around my face.
I stand and turn to face the mirror directly, one arm wet to the elbow. I pluck at the band of my stockings, uncomfortably tight around my waist. I pull them down around my hips, revealing faint red marks from the elastic across my middle. I fold the waist band down until it cuts across my pubic line. I look at myself and rub at the red marks soothingly with both hands, one dry, one wet. Beads of water wend rivers down my arm, licking a damp path across the smooth skin of my stomach. The velveteen dryness of my other hand creates a sensual contrast, almost as if one of hers—
No. These are my arms. My hands. They're all I need.
I move my dry hand down my stomach, my nails tickling a line below the elastic of my bottoms. I pluck at the small generic bow stitched into the front. In plucking I lift the waistband forward and glimpse the smooth skin beneath.
I continue unfurling my stockings, first down one leg, and then the other, sliding them delicately off each foot in turn. In the mirror I see the bath is filling rapidly behind me. I lay the stockings neatly down on the tiles and shut off the tap. The bath is full. Uncomfortably full. The idea of my body displacing water over the confines of the tub excites me in a childish sort of way. The idea of making a playful, chaotic a mess.
I return to my reflection in the mirror. I can see that my eyes are bright. Bright with arousal that has long been lacking. Bright with a grief yet to heal, and an anger that may finally allow it to.
I turn my attention to my bra. Plain. Black. It matches my bottoms, down to the tiny silk bow stitched into the cleavage.
I hook a finger under one strap and let it fall off my shoulder. I pull it further down, uncurling the thick silken cup away from my breast. I revel in the slow exposure of my skin, the feel of the damp air as I uncover myself. I pull the cup down completely, tucking it under my naked breast. The stiff material plumps it up. My nipple stiffens from the contact with the cool air as well as the erotic thrill of exposure. I rub a thumb over the peak and feel a sweet dart of pleasure in my clitoris.
I no longer feel tired as I stare at myself in the mirror. Yet, I feel like a stranger to myself. It's been so long since I've felt desire, for myself or for others. Not since her.
Yet now, I feel fully aroused and fully aware.
I think of Holly from work, and the way she had been flirting with me over break. I had ignored it. Or rather, not consciously noticed it. I think of her now, feeling for the familiar intrusion of guilt that often blankets such erotic fantasies. Like I'm committing infidelity against the ghost of the love I've been clinging to.
I think of Holly and her eyes, pretty with the light of mischief as she had leaned forward to whisper some piece of social trivia. I think of the way she had casually clasped my arm in affectionate excitability. The guilt starts to rise, but I bridle it. Nonetheless, it creates a bitter-sweet ache in my chest as I focus all my thoughts on Holly and the way she had arched her back as she shrugged out of her cardigan, amplifying the swell of her bust as she had thrust her chest forward. The small buttons of her blouse had struggled to contain her as one popped open without her notice. I recall the small slice of bright colour hinting at exciting secrets beneath. I recall her playful wink when I had pointed it out to her, and the way she held my gaze as she re-buttoned.
I pull and pinch my nipple with deepening lust, and I slide my fingers down to press against the urgent pressure building between my legs. I curl a finger between my labia to draw lubrication up around my clitoris. I rub the soft pads of my fingers in gentle circles over the sensitive peak.
It's not enough. I fumble to quickly unhook my bra, my breasts falling heavily in the heat of the steaming air. I drag my underwear down and off, seating myself on the cold edge of the bathtub. At first I keep my thighs clenched together, clamping my hand between my legs as I grind my compressed fingers in feverish circles, building pleasure low in my plexus. I rove my eyes over my naked skin as I continue to face the mirror. I spread my legs slightly to allow my hand better access. I rub myself faster, then slower, then faster again, controlling the ebb of pleasure. I continue to spread my legs, inching them farther and farther apart until my vagina is completely exposed to the mirror. I move my hand slower to better see the plump flesh of my labia, the glistening pink ruffles of my inner folds.
I think of Holly's button. The pleasure builds and builds and then crests. I cry out as I climax, my voice trilling off the tiles in gasping echoes. I clench my legs against the side of the bath to anchor myself as I arch back, pleasure pulsing up through my centre and down through my thighs, causing my legs to shake.
