Delilah's Diary #1: A Sexy Journey Read Free

you gotta start simple. Go somewhere far away and figure out who you are. Just you start there. Find out who you are."
    I talked with Susan all the rest of the way to Chicago. The last thing she said to me, before we parted ways on the platform, was life-changing.
    "Delilah? Get a makeover. Change how you look. Go wild, girl. Who you used to be is gone. Be someone new."
    She kissed my cheek, squeezed my hand, and walked away. I took my braid in my hand, my waist-length braid that had never been cut, and then looked down at my yoga pants and my tattered T-shirt, and realized Susan was right.
    It was late afternoon by then, and I was alone in Chicago. I hadn't eaten anything that day, and I was getting shaky from hunger, so I took a taxi to a little restaurant I'd visited when I was here on my business trip, then found a room at the same hotel.
    I stood in the bathroom of my hotel room after a shower, naked in front of the mirror, examining myself. My hair was nut-brown, loose, past my waist when unbraided. My eyes were a vivid cerulean, like sun-lit sapphires. Five-foot-seven, one-eighty on a good day. I touched my thirty-eight DD breasts, still perky but definitely heavy, with dark areolas the size of half-dollars, thick nipples. Wide hips, and a round but tight ass, always a little bigger than I'd like, no matter how hard I tried to make it shrink.
    I ran my hands through my hair, which had never been truly cut in all my life, only trimmed an inch or two here and there. If I was going to get a makeover, it would start with my hair. Cutting it would be brutally difficult.
    My skin was one of my best features, I'd always thought. Creamy and fair and flawless, soft as silk and white as porcelain. I ran my hands over my breasts, feeling a faint twinge of something electric deep in my belly as my palms whisked across my nipples. I'd heard women could pleasure themselves, but I'd never been brave enough to try. I mean, sure, I'd touched myself, learning my body as a little girl. But I knew without having to be outright told that to touch one's self like that was a sin, a dirty, worldly sin as bad as lying or stealing or using cuss words. As a young woman I'd hoped my boyfriend and then husband would provide the pleasure I wanted, and then when that didn't happen, I started to feel like to touch myself sexually would be cheating on my husband, and of course, there was the lingering stigma surrounding masturbation from childhood. I started a few times, when Harry was gone and I was desperate for any kind of pleasure in life, but I could never summon the courage to keep going.
    Now, I slipped my hands down my sides and to my waist, running them down my full hips, and around to my thighs.
    Should I? The idea of touching myself to feel sexual pleasure still made something deep in my psyche twitch with disapproval. Reason enough to try it. I was on a mission, I realized; I had to leave behind everything I used to be.
    What better place to start than this?
    I touched my breasts again, lifted them, then let them down and took a nipple between the thumb and forefinger of each hand, and squeezed, gently at first. Oh my...the electric current shot through me as I pinched myself, rippling down through my belly and into my knees, to my thighs and to my...
    What should I call it?
    I couldn't think of a word I liked. Vagina? No. I dismissed that one as too clinical. I thought of all the words I'd heard in movies, from the lips of the vulgar, read in my secret erotica novels—my one dirty little secret. Twat? Too foreign-sounding, too insulting. Cunt? Hell no; too filthy. Pussy? That was the word used in the erotica books the most.
    I ran my hands down my belly and pushed my fingers into the triangular thicket of curly hairs. I liked that word.
    "Pussy," I said the word out loud. It echoed in the small bathroom, an accusing sound. I said it again, pushing past the feelings of guilt and stigma.
    "Pussy. I'm going to touch my pussy." I giggled.