I was a ridiculously romantic teenager. The kind who drew little hearts with pink glitter pens in the corner of her math notebook and spent her days dreaming up names for future children: Anne, Liz, Matteo, and Gael. All of that while still being a total BV — I had never kissed anyone.
But my body wasn’t nearly as innocent as my mind.
I remember moments alone in my room when I would close my eyes and practice my first kiss on the back of my hand like an idiot, feeling the heat rise in my belly and my panties slowly getting wet just from imagining it. I loved staring at myself in the mirror for ages, gently caressing my breasts, feeling my nipples harden and that delicious shiver run down to between my thighs. I would get wet just from touching myself.
Masturbation was already my secret ritual. I did it every day. Sometimes more than once, even without fully understanding why my body craved it so much. I only knew that when I gave in, the outside world disappeared for a few minutes.
I loved touching myself before bed or in the shower. The first time I aimed the showerhead straight at my clit, I got such a shock I almost fell. It felt like an electric current shooting up my spine. A crazy mix of “Oh my God, what is this?” and “For the love of God, don’t stop!” I stayed there, frozen, just feeling the water cascade over me, heart racing, as a strange but wonderful heat took over my body.
I also used to rub myself against the edges of furniture. Crazy, right?
I clearly remember one time when my grandmother caught me rubbing against the corner of the living room table. I must have been about 10 years old. She stopped at the door, stared at me for a second, and said:
— Rafaella, what are you doing there, girl?
I froze, died of embarrassment, and ran to my room. Later she came to talk to me, sat on the edge of my bed, and just told me not to do that “where everyone could see.” She didn’t explain anything or say whether it was normal or wrong.
I kept doing it, of course. I just became much more careful.
I started doing it in bed. I’d put a pillow between my legs and rub myself slowly, feeling that delicious friction right on my clit. And the craziest part is that was all it took: a pillow, my body, and my imagination… and I was already in another dimension, floating in a pleasure that belonged only to me. Rubbing myself slowly, feeling the shivers rise like delicious little shocks.
Then came the teddy bear. It was soft and the perfect size. When I sat on top of it and started that back-and-forth motion, my hips took on a life of their own. I loved it. I’d rub myself until I came.
You can laugh, but that teddy bear became my first official boyfriend. And my favorite little toy too.
Sometimes I experimented with other things, like the handle of a hairbrush. I never actually inserted it — I just rubbed it slowly on the outside, feeling that nice pressure. I also used the handle of my toothbrush. It was thinner and more precise, perfect for rubbing directly on my clit. It helped me reach orgasm much faster.
I still didn’t have a specific person in mind when I touched myself. It was just sensations, pure pleasure. I was innocent; to me, it wasn’t something I understood as sexual — it was just something nice I could do alone.
Until Carnival 2015 arrived.
And without me knowing it, destiny decided to flip the fairy tale upside down. Because for the first time, when I closed my eyes and slid my hand between my legs, it wasn’t just a faceless body I was imagining.
It was him. Those hazel eyes.
And he was about to turn my entire life upside down.