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And, like all things, it will die. Eventually.
“Oho-kay,” Marie-Ella says once he’s left. “Who the hell was that?”
“Archer?” I shrug. “He’s just…the family bodyguard.”
“Oh, excuse me.” Tasha makes her wrist limp, mocking my fanciness. “The family bodyguard.”
Marie-Ella clicks her teeth. “If I had a bodyguard like him stomping around the house all the time, the batteries in my vibe would explode!”
Marie-Ella and Tasha burst into laughter at that.
I can feel my face go hot. I put my hand on the laptop lid. “I’ve got to go.”
“You’re such a prude!” Marie-Ella whines.
She’s not wrong.
I open and close my hand in a wave. “Love you.”
“Love you too—happy birthday!”
They’re still singing happy birthday when I close the laptop.
Now, in the silence, I can feel the buzzing. It’s as though a violin string is connected from my heart to between my legs. Archer’s presence has plucked the cord, and now both are vibrating.
Compared to my friends, I am a prude. I blush at sex jokes. I clam up when the topic comes up in conversation.
But it’s a choice I’ve made. A careful, thoughtfully considered choice.
The truth? I’m nearly twenty-one, a fully bloomed, fully in-control woman, but I’ve never had an orgasm. I’ve tried. Countless times. I’ve tried touching myself. I’ve used a vibrator. I’ve read articles, watched porn, and even bought an instructional book I kept tucked under my pillow: Your Orgasm And You!
But no luck. Just wall after frustrating, impenetrable wall.
Which makes sense. I’m trapped in the walls of this house. Trapped in the walls of my mind. Trapped.
The only thing that makes me feel free is art.
Which is why I use the spare seconds of time I have left to pick up my sketchbook and my pen.
This time to sketch—this will be my birthday present to myself.
I lie back in my bed—a king with a rust-colored duvet and plush purple pillows—and put my notebook on my knees. I turn to a clean page (I’ve nearly run out of space in this one) and uncap my pen.
As I decide what to draw, it dawns on me: What if, instead of fearing you-know-what, I tried…studying it?
Across my bed, I can see my reflection clearly in the vanity mirror.
I take the soft lace between my fingers and tug my dress up my thighs. I roll my panties off one leg and let them hang from my ankle.
Finally, I part my thighs so I can see what lies between.
I’m aware of what’s there. I’ve studied anatomy. I’ve done countless sketches of nude, live models. I’m not shy about other people’s parts.
Yet my own, somehow, remains a mystery to me. A Pandora’s box that refuses to unlock.
I position my sketchbook on my thigh and start to draw. I outline my legs. The round moons of my buttocks. And then I go in. I draw small curls for the dark patch of hair there. I trace the tip of my pen on the page and map out my pink nether lips. The delicate slit of me.
I’m glistening in the mirror. I slip my hand down and, carefully, use the tip of my finger to part my lips. I gasp. They’re so slippery. The shock of pleasure at just the small touch is overwhelming, and I grit my teeth against it. I know better. I know to stroke these flames will only lead to panting, painful frustration.
