I remember the first time I masturbated as her in vivid detail. It was wrong. I knew that much. But I couldn’t help myself.
That night I slipped into her body and locked the bathroom door. My heart raced the whole time. I didn’t know if it was from shame or excitement or both.
I stripped off her clothes and looked at myself, at her, in the mirror. I ran my hands over her body, touching it like I’d never dared to before. I felt the softness of her breasts, the curve of her hips.
I thought of those women in those magazines I would steal from my cousin. I thought of their airbrushed perfection, their impossible beauty. And then I thought of Mom. Of me as Mom. Her skin, right there under my hands, was more real, more immediate than any of those pictures.
I sat down on the bathroom floor and spread myself open. Her long hair fell around my face.
I touched myself, exploring her with hesitant fingers. My breath caught in the back of my throat when I found it, what I was looking for. I felt a rush of heat and pleasure.
It was shocking how fast it happened. How good it felt. How I spiraled out of control, barely able to hold on.
When it was over, I just sat there on the floor, both ashamed and dizzy from the intensity of what I'd done.
I promised myself I wouldn’t do it again. But that promise didn’t last long.
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