A Letter to the Woman I Used to Be

A sensual confessional on rediscovering the art of self-touch.

Dear younger me,

You were always so careful. So quiet. You tucked your desires away like secrets no one ever taught you how to speak. You thought touching yourself meant rushing. Faking. Performing. You thought pleasure was a race to a finish line, not a place to rest. I wish someone had told you sooner: it doesn’t have to be that way.

You don’t have to disappear to be desirable. You don’t have to shrink to be loved.

Because the thing that gets me off the most?
Isn’t frantic.
Isn’t noisy.
Isn’t even about “getting off.”

It’s about presence.

Some nights, I take my time. No vibrator. No soundtrack. Just me, my breath, and a slow tease of skin on skin. I’ll start with my thighs, not even touching what aches—just near it. Tracing the inside of my leg, the curve of my hip, the slope of my belly. Letting want stretch itself out like honey.

There was a time, years ago, when I’d lie beneath our husband, still and quiet, counting cracks in the ceiling. He’d finish, roll off me, and ask, “Did you come?” I’d nod, pretending it meant something. I never corrected him. I never came. Not with him.

You would’ve said nothing. Smiled politely. Told yourself that’s just how it is.

But now, I undress like I’m composing a song—soft verses written in silk, hips swaying to an unheard rhythm. I am the melody. I am the crescendo. I am the audience and the applause.

And when I finally do touch myself—it’s not pressure.
It’s permission.

I might run a bath. Light a candle. Let the warm water wrap around my legs while my fingers trace lazy lines over my skin. Or I’ll stand in front of the mirror, bare, watching how my body reacts when I slide my hands over my breasts, down the soft dip of my stomach, and lower.

Sometimes I pretend I’m a planet, orbiting closer and closer to the sun—until I finally burn.

I circle slow. Pause. Let the tension build like a quiet storm. I tease the edges of sensation until my whole body feels like it’s listening.

And when I slip lower, when my fingers part my lips and I finally press into the ache, I do it like I’m telling a secret. A soft, gasping confession.

Some nights I edge myself for minutes, sometimes hours. Not because I need to come, but because I want to feel everything along the way.

And when the release finally comes? It’s not a bang.
It’s a surrender.

My legs shake. My back arches. My mouth falls open around a name I haven’t said aloud in years—or no name at all, just a low, breathless moan. It pours through me, hot and honest. No filter. No performance. Just me and my pulse and the deep, delicious knowing that I gave this to myself.

My sheets are cool beneath my back, but my skin is flushed and damp, nipples tight from the air. There’s lavender on the pillow. I breathe it in with every gasp.

After, I don’t move. I let the ache hum in my thighs, let the quiet settle in like a blanket. And I think—why did I wait so long to love myself like this?

I melt. I breathe. I feel.

That’s what gets me off now.
Not the rush. Not the show.

The truth.

And the truth is… I’ve never felt more connected to my body than I do when I stop trying to perform and start trying to listen.

Maybe tonight, you’ll try it too. Maybe you’ll put the vibrator away, light a candle, and find your own rhythm. I hope you listen. I hope you come home to yourself.

So tell me—how do you like to touch yourself?
Not the way you think you should.
Not the way anyone taught you to.

The way that actually makes you feel whole.

I’m proud of you. You made it here.
With love,
You