It’s 10:10 on a Thursday morning, and I’m still in bed.

I slept until about eight, made my coffee with orange blossom honey and half-and-half, did the New York Times games, and then, instead of starting work, I climbed back under the covers.

I reached for my crystal egg, put a little aloe lubricant on it, and gently inserted it. I love to note the exact moment when my pussy takes over, sucking in, enveloping the cool, hard crystal, drawing it deep inside of me. I picked up my favorite vibrator. A very modern, very expensive version of the Rabbit. Very worth it. I’ve noticed lately that I rarely insert it inside me anymore. I love the smaller vibrating part moving around my clitoris and the larger part meeting the entrance of my vulva. It’s almost like “just the tip,” lingering at the entrance, following what feels good instead of following what I imagine I’m supposed to do.

In all the times I was with M. and my boundary was “no penetration,” but he’d massage the tip of his cock against my clitoris and around my opening, I started to get really turned on by this idea of him coming right up to the edge of my boundary, and holding there. There was always a question in my mind, would he push past my boundary, would I say anything, did it matter to him, and to me enough to say stop. Could I trust him to respect my spoken boundary? Could I trust myself to hold it?

I love how deeply I trust myself, my own touch of my body, my own ability to create and control my own pleasure. I love how well I know my body and what feels good to me. Self-intimacy is such a beautiful thing. Nobody taught me this. My body taught me this.

There is something profoundly comforting about knowing that my body is a place I already know how to come home to.

As I pleasured myself using just the right amount of pressure, just the right intensity of vibration, exactly the motion and movement that feels exquisite to me, I squeezed and massaged my left breast with my left hand, while my right hand held the vibrator. Stimulating my breast so firmly had me imagining the men who have given me so much pleasure by massaging my breasts and sucking on my nipples. It never fails to bring such fire and wetness between my legs, to deepen and widen the pleasure I feel and expand my orgasm intensely. A few men I’ve been with have an obvious obsession with my breasts, my nipples, sucking them intensely for a long time. I am so into that. I love how it feels.

One of the things I noticed this morning made me laugh. When I pleasure myself, my left breast usually gets so much more attention than my right. My left hand naturally wanders there while my right hand holds the vibrator, and I spend all this time massaging it, squeezing my nipple, feeling the firmness, fullness, and warmth of my skin. At one point I actually thought, If I wanted to be fair to both breasts, I should probably switch sides.

Then I thought, Or maybe I don’t have to be fair.

It’s just me. Nobody is keeping score. Nobody is watching. There is no right way. But sometimes I do include my right breast in the action. I don’t want her to feel left out or under-loved.

Sometimes I hear people talk about self-pleasure like it should always be this long, sacred ritual, candles lit, breathing deeply, taking an hour to lovingly worship your body. Sometimes that sounds wonderful, but honestly, most of the time I don’t want all of that. It feels performative. I don’t need that.

Most of the time I just want to enjoy myself. Give myself a few minutes of mind-blowing pleasure, because I can.

I’ve always had a good relationship with self-pleasure. As far back as I can remember, my body has known how to experience pleasure, to orgasm often and easily and I’ve always felt grateful for that. As a kid, I don’t remember ever believing it was wrong, even though I knew not to talk about it. It’s one of the ways I’ve always known how to take care of myself. I suspect regular orgasms are good for my hormones, especially now that I’m in perimenopause. They settle my nervous system. They soften something inside me. They remind me that pleasure isn’t something another person has to give me.

This morning’s orgasm was deep and long. I let myself moan loudly, breathe fully, and flow with the waves, opening my mouth wide, feeling my jaw pop over and over. Waves moved through my body and out my throat, mouth, and lips. My back arched, my toes pointed, my hips and legs opened as wide as they wanted to, my back cracking as the waves of pleasure peaked, softened, and slowly came to rest.

I was lying there feeling that wonderful, heavy relaxation that comes after my body has completely let go, and I started thinking about how much more intense everything becomes when I allow myself to make a little noise, when I relax my jaw instead of clenching it, when I stop trying to contain myself. I’ve heard people talk about the connection between the jaw, the throat, and the pelvis, and whether it’s anatomical or energetic or both, I don’t know. I just know I can feel it.

In the midst of loving being naked with myself, it occurred to me that it’s been at least seven months since I’ve been naked with another person.

I was naked at Harbin on my birthday, but that’s different. I mean really naked with someone. Touching. Being touched. Wondering what they’re seeing when they look at me.

For so much of my adult life, I experienced my body through the imagined eyes of a man.

Not all the time. Not every day. But enough that it shaped the way I moved through the world. Before I saw someone I was attracted to, I became a project.

I’d shave my legs. Get a pedicure. Think about what bra and underwear to wear. Worry about how my stomach looked. Make sure I smelled good, that my skin was hydrated and dewy. I’d make sure my sheets were clean and my home was perfect. I’d buy food I thought they’d like. Think about how they would feel in my house. Think about whether my body was attractive enough, whether my clothes were flattering enough, whether I seemed sexy enough without seeming like I was trying too hard.

I don’t think I ever consciously thought, Please choose me. But looking back, that’s exactly what I was hoping. Not in some manipulative way. Not because I lacked self-respect. I genuinely believed I was being loving. Generous. Thoughtful. I wanted people to feel comfortable with me. I wanted them to feel cared for.

But underneath all of that was another hope that I couldn’t see at the time.

Maybe if I’m beautiful enough…

Maybe if I’m easy enough…

Maybe if I’m supportive enough…

Maybe if I don’t ask for too much…

…maybe you’ll choose me.

It’s hard to admit that.

Not because I judge the woman I was, but because I can feel how deeply she wanted to be loved.

When I think about J., I can see how desperately I wanted him to want to become my boyfriend, even though the relationship we actually had never pointed in that direction. I kept hoping that if we spent enough time together, if the sex was good enough, if I was understanding enough, eventually something would shift. I’d end it, then go back. End it again, then go back. I wasn’t responding to the relationship we actually had. I was responding to the one I wished we had. It was objectively hot. What we had was special. I could not help myself from wanting it to be more than it was. His flakiness hurt my feelings and I could not make myself change to be okay with the disappointments.

A. was different, but the pattern wasn’t. I spent so much energy trying to make life comfortable for him. I cooked for him. I made my house welcoming. I listened. I overlooked comments that hurt because I didn’t want to fight. I think I kept hoping that if I created enough ease, enough comfort, enough love around him, eventually he would decide that I was home. Instead, I spent years trying to earn something that isn’t earned.

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I’d simply been myself from the beginning. If I’d said, “Actually, that hurts my feelings,” instead of letting things slide. If I’d stopped trying so hard to make everything pleasant. But then I realize I’m asking the wrong question.

The question isn’t whether a different version of me could have made A. want to stay. The question is why I believed it was my job to make him stay in the first place. That feels like a much more interesting question.

And then there’s M. That relationship is still the hard for me to untangle because intimacy and money and healing all became woven together. I still don’t know exactly where one ended and another began. Sometimes I wonder whether he was genuinely attracted to me. Sometimes I wonder whether I was simply a client willing to pay for more intimate work. Maybe the answer is somewhere in between.

What surprises me now is that I spent so many years asking whether these men desired me. I hardly ever stopped to ask whether I truly desired the lives they were living.

J. wasn’t building the kind of life I wanted. A. wasn’t showing me the kind of partnership I wanted. M. wasn’t available for the kind of relationship I wanted.

Yet somehow I kept making myself the variable.

What if I changed? What if I lost weight? What if I were sexier? Kinder? More patient? Less needy? More understanding?

It’s exhausting to remember because none of that effort ever brought me closer to feeling secure. If anything, it pulled me further away from myself.

One thing I can see so clearly now is the emotional cycle I lived inside for years. Before seeing one of these men, I’d suddenly have endless energy. I’d shave. Clean the house. Buy groceries. Pick out clothes. My body felt alive with anticipation.

Then I’d see them. Then they’d leave. And afterward came the crash.

Waiting for a text. Wondering whether I’d asked for too much. Wondering if they were pulling away. Trying to decode silence. Trying to become someone who wouldn’t be left.

I don’t think I understood how addicted I was to that cycle. Not because it made me happy—it often made me miserable—but because it made me feel intensely alive.

Now my life is quieter. Sometimes I miss the excitement. Sometimes I miss the possibility. Sometimes I miss having someone to fantasize about. I miss the dopamine. But I don’t miss organizing my life around someone else’s desire.

Lying in bed this morning, with my legs unshaven and my body softer than it used to be, I realized I wasn’t apologizing for myself.

I wasn’t wondering whether someone would find me attractive. I wasn’t wishing I were twenty pounds lighter before someone saw me naked. I wasn’t trying to earn anything. I was simply enjoying being in my own body.

Maybe that’s what this whole Sacred Body Love project has been moving toward, even before I knew it.

Not loving my body because someone else finally loves it. Not finally fixing it. Not finally making it beautiful enough. Just slowly, quietly, coming home to it.

I don’t know what my future holds. I don’t know if I’ll have another partner. I don’t know if I’ll fall in love again. I honestly don’t know what a truly healthy romantic relationship would feel like because I haven’t lived one.

But I do know this.

I don’t want my body to exist primarily in anticipation of someone else’s experience of it. I want it to belong to me first. Maybe that’s what choosing myself actually means.

Not giving up on love. Not deciding I don’t need anyone. Just no longer abandoning myself while I wait for someone else to decide that I’m enough.