Peep Show

Once, while lounging around an unfamiliar woman’s bedroom the morning after a one-night stand, I asked if she would masturbate for me. I expected her to refuse. It was too intimate a thing, and we barely knew one another, and didn’t intend to know each other any better. Once we left her bedroom, we both knew, we’d likely never find ourselves in it together again.

She didn’t refuse. “Now?” she said.

“Yes. If you want to.”

“I want to. With my fingers?”

“However you normally would. Pretend I’m not here.”

She nodded. And then, much to my surprise, she did exactly as I had asked. She lay back, arranged her hair, pulled the duvet between her thighs and started grinding into it. Slowly, at first. Eyes shut. She gripped her pillow with one hand, pressing her cheek into it, and slipped her other hand down her body, into her underwear. Her fingers stretched the fabric. She touched herself and rolled her hips.

It took her no more than five minutes to come. She did so unperformatively, not looking at me, barely making a sound. A single pent up breath. A small grunt. A long, shaky exhale through her nose. Small movements all the while, humping the duvet wadded between her legs, fingers moving more and more frantically. She didn’t speak, but she mouthed a few formless words just before she finished. As she came her free hand slipped from her pillow to her breast, which she squeezed very hard, nails digging in.

It was over quickly. She lay for a minute to get her breath, and then sat up. She smiled. Her cheeks were a little pink, but otherwise she seemed unruffled. We talked a little longer, kissed for several minutes, and then said goodbye. We never saw each other again, but I remember very clearly still how surprising it was, the casual intimacy of her silent, competent, self-absorbed pleasure.