When I become water

This was written by one of the Revealed women in the 2023 group. Curious to join a group and share your stories? Click here.

I carefully sit in the tub with the shower stream running over me.

It’s turned up so billows of steam fill the room, and the heat of the water turns my skin rosy and taught.

I let the water cascade over my legs, my knees bent, my back against the wall.

I press my legs apart, exposing myself to myself. I’m alone, and that’s how I want it to be.

I reached out to my partner earlier, telling him I wanted more of him but that I didn’t know how to get there. He never responded, so I’m going to give more to myself.

With my eyes closed, I start to probe my recesses. I trace a finger along my inner labia, feeling the rough-hewn edges of my sex. The small bumps, glands, as a gynecologist once told me. I can picture what I look like, my most tender flesh, a matte mix of aubergine and dust. Rough ridges, stretchy tissue, patches of silk. 

I never liked to look at it because I was certain my appearance was unusual — I never saw anything but peppercorn pink in porn. I worried partners would think I’d look worn, used, like a raisin dried in the sun. 

With my eyes closed now, I think I look beautiful. Like the beauty I see in the gills of a mushroom. I am of earth.

Using a finger on either side of my clit, I start to stroke.

My breath often stops, frozen in my lungs, as the pleasure overwhelms me. As I forget to breathe. I remind myself to breathe. Just breathe, out through the mouth, slowly, as I feel my air mix with the mist coating my skin.

I remember reading a book recently that advised women to relax, to resist hardening their pelvic floor, to soften. I envision my pelvic girdle like it's full of a chocolate pot de creme. It’s formed but luxurious. Smooth. It has give.  

As I stroke faster, alternating my rhythm by sliding a finger an inch and a half or so inside me, pressing up and stroking the spongy flesh, I feel a warmth spread through my pussy. That recognizable tingling, my body filling with effervescence starting at my root.

As I bring my fingers up to my lips to deposit more saliva, I can taste myself. Slightly salty. With a full mouthfeel and a slight bitterness like lemon rind. Upfront sweetness lingering with an astringent heart note that coats my tongue, drying it slightly. I remember that the vagina is an acidic environment, self-cleaning, and I can taste my brightness. 

It turns me on to be so close to myself this way, my saliva cushioning my clit, my taste on my lips, an infinite circle of loving myself. Tending to myself.

When I run my finger along my depth, I can feel the muscular folds rise to meet my length, erect just like a cock. Suddenly, I’m flowing, warm, slick liquid pouring out of me, dripping down, carried by gravity, spreading across my asshole. 

A second gush, this one bigger. I am wetness. I am water. 

It’s only the prelude. 

I open my eyes. I need to look at myself. My fingers rest between my lips, covered with a dusting of pubic hair. Underneath, my clit. I peer through the fog to see how much she’s blooming. I sometimes think she looks like a small bird’s beak and is as firm as one when she’s pleased.

My inner labia fan out from her, forming the most elegant wings. Symmetrical, peaking out from my outer labia ever so slightly. Foreshadowing my pleasure. I close my eyes again, pressing my back into the unforgiving enamel. I stroke. Stroke. Rub. Press. Up and down. Up and down. Faster. Steady. Steady now. 

The sensation has always felt to me like when you spill hot water on your skin, scalding hot and freezing cold at the same time. 

My inner labia start to press upward, closer to my finger as I stroke. I feel them against me as I stroke downward. They feel fuller, engorged, and straining within themselves. Like they’re stretching against their edges.  

I’m close. Remember to breathe.

“Fuckkkk” seeps out of my mouth, an organic reaction to giving myself pleasure.

I’m close. Remember to breathe. 

My body gives, and waves move through me, from pubic bone to vaginal walls; my legs shake. 

Shake. Shake. Shake. A perfect staccato. 

I place the full width of my hand, palm down, against myself, holding me tight in an embrace as I continue to pulse. 

I’ve done this so many times before. Often functional. Frequently to indulge in a fantasy. Rarely a moment of presence, in touch with my desire and embodied in my pleasure. 

In this quiet moment, all alone, without anybody’s eyes on me, I become water.