At home, I treat myself to a glass of pinotage, a springbok carpaccio and avo salad. I giggle at the subconscious choice to have a light meal, something I would usually do if I had reason to believe I was going to have a long, kinky night that didn’t need a bloated stomach.
I run myself a bubble bath and dig out my essential oils and candles that I haven’t touched in almost a year. I burn some incense and allow Floetry to take my mind and body back to a time when all I was, was a walking furnace of fiery hormones and wild fantasies. I reminisce about experiences that made impressions on my then young, naïve, and innocent body. Bathing myself and feeling those same spots almost makes me feel like no time has passed at all. The sweet spots have always been there, they never went away. I had just forgotten how to ignite them with all the changes and experiences my body has gone through over the years.
I oil myself in front of the mirror, deliberately touching every part of my body, erogenous zone or not. I pinch my nipples, slightly tighten my grip as I moisturise my neck before tracing over my collar bone, a feature of mine I have always appreciated and liked just for existing. My round, firm ass fills the mirror as I turn around. It’s always a natural instinct to reach down and grab my cheeks. I enjoy how they feel, and how they seem to overflow even out of my rather big hands. I rub my thighs, ‘accidentally’ stroking my clit, and I notice the butterflies in my tummy. I enjoy the feeling of my skin and squeeze my belly lovingly before assuming a neutral position again. How my body has changed. My breasts haven’t grown as much as I hoped they would, but they are fuller. I have gained some weight in all my favourite parts and my thighs and legs feel really good to touch. I marvel at how beautiful I feel and I suddenly feel guilty that I had grown complacent in reminding myself of this. Then, I quickly forgive myself. We are here now.
I slip on the raunchy red bodysuit that I was notorious for during my dancing days as Keith Sweat’s Nobody began in the background. I love how the piece fits on my body. I find my phone and start indulging the exhibitionist in me, taking videos and pictures of myself from different angles and in various parts of my apartment. With each click, I imagine if it were a stranger looking in from the outside. I think about all the kinky things my body likes and is capable of as I strip for my camera, and I cannot believe that tonight, it is I who has full and unreserved access to this beautiful black woman.
I don’t allow myself to feel shy at the thought of turning myself on. It had been ages since I had seen myself in this way and felt this way about my body. I exercise all my strong will to resist the temptation to slip into bed, find my vibrator and give myself a well-earned orgasm. I want to take my time, and thoroughly enjoy myself.
I bring out my candles and incense, and set myself up on a duvet on the floor of my lounge in front of the breath-taking view of the city lights. I can see my reflection in the glass, and I imagine a Peeping Pam somewhere out there looking into my flat, watching me. I let time pass just rubbing my body, taking note of how it feels to touch, what is different and what is familiar. I tease my clit and bite my lip, smiling coyly at the silkiness of the wetness between my thighs, rather impressed that I have been able to arouse myself so much with no external aid, and no other body on my mind except my own.
I feel edgy. I feel the kind of desire and lust I had once upon a time when I was curious to see all that my body could feel and do. I catch the reflection of flickering candles in the window, and I can’t help but think how beautiful the flames look around my now naked body. I place the candles around me, creating an altar or praying circle of sorts. It’s as if I am about to sacrifice myself to myself, allow the body that was carrying all that anxiety, depression, self-loathing, and pity to be crucified and resurrected into a new body that could lead me to my ultimate salvation. I want to repent for my sin of ungratefulness, of forgetting who I actually am, deliver myself from the guilt and shame, wash myself clean with my holy waters and afford all the forgiveness I have ever needed for any unkindness I may have shown myself. I felt a deep need to be born again.
I reach for the nearest candle, and tilt it slightly, allowing the wax to fall onto my stomach. It burns and sends a bolt of shock throughout my body; the goosebumps, physical evidence of the excitement and rushing blood boiling beneath my skin. My heart starts beating faster as the adrenaline rushes through my body. I continue tracing wax paths across my skin, towards my chest, around my breasts, over my nipples and back down towards my tummy.
I pour more wax over the outline of my pelvis. It stings, and I love it. It is with these stripes I will be healed after all. I stop watching my hands and shut my eyes as I allow the wax to drip and land where it will. I gasp at the feeling of hot wax on my clit. It burns so much, but the adrenaline is addictive. I don’t stop. I keep pouring, gasping even louder, my eyes tearing up, until there is no more wax to pour.
I pause. I breathe. I relax. My hands are trembling as I put the candle down and reach for my clit, warm and sticky. I remove the wax while I rub and tease myself, taking my time. I am so wet. My cup is overflowing, cum running down between my butt cheeks. The desire is so intense, desperate almost, that I have to swallow hard a few times as I slide into the depths of my wetness. I secretly wish my fingers were thicker and longer. I want to feel myself against every crevice of my walls. I do not remember the last time I wanted myself like this. My sweet spot is so swollen, it greets me eagerly at the entrance of my pussy, welcoming me back home, happy to be held and loved by me again. I do not have to work hard to stimulate it. My pussy walls swell up and tighten around my fingers as more blood fills my vulva, like a short fuse at the end of rocket fireworks. I move my fingers in and out to the beat as Beyonce’s Speechless approaches its bridge. I am pressing against my sweet spot purposefully and precisely. My fingers feel like they are carving my signature into the walls of my pussy, recommitting, and re-pledging myself to myself, to my body, as I relish every bit of pleasure I am capable of feeling. I do not picture my favourite porn star, I do not think of a past steamy encounter or of any one of the many fantasies I have. I fully engulf myself in the idea that it is me, all me, that is evoking the ecstasy that permeates from my belly.
It is almost unbelievable to me as I consider that this is the same body that’s housed the coldness of depression so long. The same body that would have rather felt pain and hurt than to live with the feelings of nothingness and despair that had invaded it. I allow myself to think about how I have held on, and insisted on, a better experience, literally dragging myself out of what was possibly the darkest and scariest time in my young life. I feel my heart and my sweet spots swell with pride, ecstasy and gratitude, because not only am I feeling again, but oh my God, I am feeling good! I don’t often make noise when I touch myself, but I allow myself to moan and cry out as I grapple with the many emotions that come crashing into my body all at once. My orgasm feels like hot water melting away that depressive coldness – it is both delightful and painful, and definitely shocking to my body. I come, so hard and so good. I don’t want to stop in case the euphoria disappears. When my fingers grow tired, I swap hands. My walls are tight and swollen from the vigorous fucking, so I slip a finger into my ass and rub my clit, almost desperately. It feels like I am fucking myself for the very first time. Feeling myself squirt evokes another orgasm simultaneously and I revel in the contraction of my muscles, squeezing every bit of pleasure out of and back into my body. I am delirious and drunk off lust for myself. After one more, loud, and disorientating orgasm, I lay still, catching my breath, and soaking up every second and every sensation. I caress my skin and my whole body feels sensitive to touch. I look up at my disappearing reflection in my window and I am so glad this is not a dream or a fantasy.
As I doze off in bed, even my sheets on my naked body feel erotic. I can’t help but think how tonight symbolised how I had become my own saviour, my own hero in the battlefield that had become my mind. I am grateful, not only to reconnect with my body again, but to feel like I had reclaimed the power over myself.
It feels so good to be cumming into myself, again.
