Unfiltered

Here it is. What unfiltered looks like when I stop rewriting

The woman I didn’t want to recognize

Drinks with the university girls last week. The usual wine bar with the overpriced drinks. I wore my navy silk dress. Samantha was there. She quit banking three years ago after marrying her white husband.

We were comparing weekend plans, complaining about being tired. Someone mentioned spin class was killing them. Samantha laughed, stretched a little, said she was still sore too. When asked what sport, she replied with a small smile, “Oh, just trying to keep up with my husband’s fitness routine.”

That little pause before “fitness routine.” That private smile. I thought nothing of it then. We all shared a Grab home, dropping off one by one. Normal goodnights. Normal promises to meet again soon.

At my vanity table, I removed my earrings, placed them in the ceramic dish. Pulled the pins from my hair, letting it fall past my shoulders. The silk dress unzipped from the back, I pulled my arms free and let it pool at my waist.

I should have gotten up. Should have showered. Instead I sat there, looking at myself.

Isabel Wang. Pretty enough to catch their attention. Fit enough to keep it. Successful enough that it should matter. The silk dress at my waist, white lace bra barely covering what I maintain at the gym. Everything I worked for. Everything I thought I wanted.

Then I thought of Samantha’s face. That satisfaction that I won’t name, her life that I tell myself I don’t want, the woman who traded her career for her husband’s ring.

I looked at myself in the mirror. White lace bra, slightly translucent. Who did I wear this for? No one. But now I could see my nipples through the fabric, already hardening.

My fingers found them through the lace. Circled slowly. A sound escaped me, soft but unmistakable. I thought about what makes Samantha sore. About her husband. Large. White. She is my friend and this is wrong. But my hand kept moving, teasing my nipples into peaks.

Usually I go to bed for this. But tonight I wanted to see. I needed to watch.

I hiked up my dress to my waist and spread my legs in the chair. My panties already damp. Just from thinking about “fitness routine.” About what kind of exercise leaves you sore for days.

In the mirror, my face changing. Mouth falling open. Nothing like the high-flying career woman who presented a slide deck that morning. I started to look like those women in the videos I pretend I don’t watch. The ones where the Asian woman’s face shows complete surrender.

My other hand moved down slowly. Over my stomach. Hesitating at my panties. Then slipping underneath. The wetness between my legs surprising me. How long have I been this turned on? Since sitting down at this mirror?

I explored gently at first. Circling. Teasing. Watching my expression change with each touch. My professional mask completely gone now. Replaced by something honest. Something hungry.

I started rubbing with more pressure. My breathing getting heavier. In the mirror, this woman I’m becoming. Lips parted. Eyes heavy with want. Hand moving steadily between my legs while the other returns to squeeze my breast through the lace.

The heat building everywhere. Can’t believe I’m doing this. Watching myself do this. But I can’t stop. My fingers finding that rhythm. That pressure. My hips starting to move against my hand. Moans escaping from my lips.

Pushed my panties aside. Need more. So wet now. The sound of it obscene in my quiet bedroom. My fingers sliding through the wetness. Finding that spot that makes me gasp.

My thighs trembling. I slipped one finger inside. Then two. But imagining something else. Something thicker. Something that would make me sore.

I was moving my fingers faster now. Deeper. In the mirror, watching this desperate woman. The one I couldn’t recognize. Or didn’t want to. Mouth open. Moaning without shame. The pressure building. Getting close. So close. My hips rocking against my hand. Pushing against my palm. I can’t keep quiet. These sounds coming from me. Needy. Desperate.

Almost there. My whole body is tensing. Everything focused on that climbing pressure. On the fingers inside me. On what I’m imagining. What I want. What would make me sore and satisfied and owned.

I can feel it. Building from deep inside. My thighs shaking. Fingers pumping faster. Harder. Thinking about being stretched. Filled. Fucked properly by a white man who knows how to make an Asian woman submit. I can feel it approaching. That edge. That moment before everything breaks. My hand gripping my breast. Squeezing hard. Pinching my nipple through the lace until it hurts.

So close. So fucking close. I am leaning back in the chair. Pushing hard against my palm. My whole body arching. Then.

Coming. Fuck, I am coming so hard. I gripped the table for support. My body shaking. Still fingering myself through each wave. Gasping. Whimpering. The pleasure almost too much but I can’t stop. Won’t stop. Riding it out. Every muscle tensing then releasing. My pussy clenching around my fingers again and again.

Finally collapsed back in the chair. Breathless. Fingers still inside but not moving. Just feeling the aftershocks. The little trembles.

In the mirror, this woman with flushed cheeks and messy hair. Who just came thinking about her friend’s white husband. About being the kind of woman I swore I would never be.

But right now, writing this, remembering that face in the mirror...

My sheets are already damp where I’m sitting. My thighs pressing together aren’t helping.

I should stop. Should close this laptop.

But my hand keeps drifting back down…

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I wanted to fix the grammar, make myself sound less desperate, more normal. I almost deleted this entirely.

But I’m tired of editing myself everywhere else. I curate my public image for the world. At work, with friends, in every email I send. This diary is the only place I don’t have to.

So here it is. The wrong tenses where past and present blur together. The place where grammar and sentences break down. The crude words I finally stopped censoring. What it actually looked like when I lost control.

If I can’t be honest here, then where?