I turn the lights out, turn the stereo up, fuzzy guitars and smouldering, hypnotic beats. I slip my panties off, inhale the musky post-menstrual scent of myself on them. I am wet. On the couch here in the dark, I slide my fingers into that warm slickness, feeling the heat spread. I am on fire. Thinking of nothing, of no one, thinking only of myself, and then not thinking at all.
I change into my pajamas, black boy shorts and a thin, tight black t-shirt with a hole just over and slightly to the left of my left nipple. I look at myself in the bathroom mirror, in the half-light provided by the bedroom lamp. I admire the curves of my inner thighs, my smooth pale skin, the flatness of my belly, the shape of my breasts beneath the t-shirt. And I dance, seductively, teasingly, in the half-light, in the mirror, dancing for no one, dancing only for myself, and then not dancing at all.