Ifeelmyself: Strawberry

We spend so much time performing pleasure for others—the right face, the right noise, the right amount of enthusiasm. But when you are truly alone, truly with yourself, what does your pleasure sound like? Is it a gasp? A sigh? Silence?

The sound was obscene. A crack of seeds, a rush of juice. It ran down my chin before I could catch it. My first instinct was to reach for a napkin—to clean up, to apologize for the mess. But I stopped. strawberry ifeelmyself

Because no one is.

Not the pale, seedy, refrigerated ghosts they sell in plastic clamshells in December. I’m talking about the real thing. The one you find tucked under a green canopy of leaves, still warm from the sun. It is so red it looks like a stop sign. It is so fragrant you can smell it before your lips even touch the skin. We spend so much time performing pleasure for

I looked at my reflection in the dark screen of my laptop after finishing the berry. There was a smear of red at the corner of my mouth. My hair was falling in my face. I looked slightly feral. I looked alive. A sigh