An Anesthetic Touch.

There is something about the touch of my own hand against my body. It is like anesthesia. Numbing a trail as I graze along my inner thigh. I do not quiver, I do not squirm. It is a stillness that no one but myself can give to me. The feeling of my fingers caressing the lips between my legs is familiar, predictable, loyal. The rhythm I read like brail against my wet vulva. Desires I cannot verbalize. Somehow, my touch knows what I need. Somehow without being able to decipher the messages, I know exactly what shall be done, at exactly the time I need it. It is a recurring ritual in an attempt to understand the complexities my body speaks of and the sensations I cannot quite describe. It is an affair only I will ever know of, only I can ever reach.