My fingers know exactly how to act upon my skin—they have for over half my life now. There is no fear or hesitation. When I masturbate, I am aware of varying degrees of heat throughout my body. It is hottest between my legs. Cool air seems to heat the moment it hits my skin, the moment I suck it in between my lips. After, my hands shake as if I’d had an infusion of caffeine. I press my hand, palm down, in the vale between my breasts, and it feels as if my heart will burst through my hand. I love that feeling—knowing that I’m illimitably alive.

Though I’ve never had a man inside me, I have had many orgasms. I have talked with girls who not only can’t have one with their lover but can’t bring themselves to have one. I was shocked at first, until I saw how common it was. And then I felt lucky. My first one scared me. At twelve, I did not expect such a reaction to my own touch; I thought I’d hurt myself. But it was such a curious feeling, such a lovely feeling, that I had to explore it further. I felt almost greedy. And, well, I got better at it until it was ridiculously easy. Still, it is always easy.

I don’t expect it to be so easy with a man. I’ve come to believe that sex is defined by affection, not orgasm. There is that need to be held that doesn’t disappear when we learn to walk on our own. If anything, it intensifies.

I love being a girl. I think of my body as all scent and soft muscle. It is an imperfect body, but beautiful still, in its energy and in its potential. I love looking at my curves in the mirror. I love feeling them and admiring their craftsmanship. I love my hip bones—small, protruding mountains. Or maybe they are like sacred stones marking the entrance to a secret city. I trace the slope of my calf as if it is a slender tree trunk, and I am amazed at how strong, yet vulnerable, the human body is. I am as in awe of my body as I am of the earth. My joints are prominent, as if asserting themselves. I know my terrain well, perhaps better than any man ever could—the warm, white softness of my inner arms; the hard, smooth muscle of my biceps, like the rounded swelling in a snake that just swallowed the tiniest mouse; the sensitive skin between my thighs; the mole on my pelvis nestled by a vein like a dot on a map marking a city beside a river. I have stared at my naked body in the mirror wondering what the first touch from a lover will feel like and where it will be.