I have a secret I keep. It’s a quiet, private ritual that belongs only to me. In the stillness of my own space, when the world outside fades away, I find a kind of solace that I don't get from anything else.

My hands know my body better than anyone else's ever could. There's an intimacy in that, a profound understanding of what feels good, what builds, what releases. It's not just a physical act; it's a conversation with myself. In those moments, I am both the giver and the receiver of pleasure, completely in tune with my own desires without any need for performance or explanation.

Sometimes it's a quick release, a way to quiet the noise in my head. Other times, it's a slow, deliberate exploration, a journey through sensation that leaves me breathless and trembling. I've learned the maps of my own skin, the exact pressure and rhythm that sends me over the edge.

There's no shame in it for me, not anymore. There's a power in claiming my own pleasure, in not needing it to be validated by another person. It's mine. This secret is a source of comfort, a well of self-reliance, a fundamental part of who I am. And while I may never speak its name out loud, I hold it close, a private truth that is entirely and unapologetically my own.