I Like Touching Myself

Not every touch has to be sexual or even have a purpose. Sometimes I run my fingertips over my skin just because I can.

Lying in bed, on my side, curled against John Brownstone, I go exploring. A dip in my stomach there, a bump or lump there.

My fingers trace patterns across my body, wandering absentmindedly across the vast terrain. No direction, no destination in mind. Touching because I can, because it’s there.

A body being a “wonderland” might be trite and a bit of a trope, but it’s true, too. There is so much to feel and experience, even when it’s your own body.

I’m fascinated by the curve of my breast as I roll to one side. Screw what the mirror tells me, is there anything more perfectly round in that moment? I trace the line my body has created, in awe of my own perfection — a perfection only my fingertips know because my eyes and brain are blind to it.

The dip between my leg and pelvis catches my attention. Where did this indentation come from? How did this lumpy, bumpy body create such a thing? I know that when tongue or teeth visit heat floods my body, and I endure unimaginable pleasure. My own touch only provides the memory. But it’s there, I feel it, just under the skin.

I play with my belly button and the heavy roll of flesh just beneath it. I hate how it looks and love how it feels. How do I reconcile that dichotomy? I don’t know and may never. But my hands wander, lifting the weight, reveling in the soft, squishiness. I dip a finger in and out of the my belly button and run my hand under that roll. Sometimes I’m comparing it to previous caresses, testing for change. But sometimes I savor the feeling with little thought for a moment outside of this one.

After a long winding journey, my hand rests against my vulva. I cup mons and labia in a gentle hold, feeling the weight of myself, flesh against flesh. Then…fingertips trip and traipse the creases and folds of my body. I don’t finger myself or masturbate. I explore. The rippled, puckered flesh here, then the silken skin there. I touch the curve of my ass and the crease where thigh and vulva meet. Nothing more than a gentle caress. No purpose, no need, only the exploration of a familiar terrain.

What’s the purpose? There is none, I guess. I find it comforting, familiar, and soothing. It’s a reminder of who I am when my mind wants me to focus on other things. And it’s a great surprise to find that I love what I feel under my fingertips. Touching myself with no destination and no stated reason is a gift I give to myself. Because I can.

Welcome to Masturbation Monday! Not particularly sexy, I know, but those moments always feel seductive in some way. If the picture above looks familiar, it’s because you first saw it In All My Glory and I edited it slightly. It’s still my favorite picture. Want some actual smut? You know where to go!