The Masturbational

I have to admit something. It's a thrill I can't seem to shake. I like fingering myself in public stores.

It's never about getting caught. That's too simple. It's about the stark, absurd contrast between the mundane and the deeply private. I'll be walking through the fluorescent-lit aisles of Target or Walmart, surrounded by families arguing about cereal choices and people staring listlessly at shelves of laundry detergent, and I'll feel this pull, this sudden, intense urge to create a secret.

My favorite spot is the home goods section, specifically the display beds. I'll run my hand over a plush duvet, like I'm actually considering its thread count, and then I'll casually sit down on the edge of the mattress. No one looks twice. I'm just another shopper testing out the merchandise. That's when my hand, hidden by a shopping bag or my jacket, will slip under the waistband of my jeans.

I'll sit there, nodding thoughtfully at a decorative pillow, while my fingers are working inside me. The air conditioning is humming, a kid is having a meltdown two aisles over, and I'm biting the inside of my cheek to keep my face neutral. The thrill is incredible. I'm masturbating in a fake bedroom in the middle of a store, surrounded by people who have no idea that the woman calmly evaluating a throw pillow is seconds away from cumming.

I've done it in the changing rooms at Macy's, in the plush velvet chairs of a bookstore, and once, very carefully, in a grocery cart while I was pretending to read the back of a cereal box. It's my dirty little secret, my rebellion against the sterile, soul-sucking monotony of consumerism. They want me to just be a consumer, a faceless shopper buying things. Instead, I'm using their sacred spaces for my own private, filthy pleasure. And when I finally make myself cum, quickly and quietly, and stand up to smooth my clothes, I feel like I've gotten away with something. I feel alive.