To answer your question

Sometimes when I make myself come I don't think about anything. My own skin is enough.

Sometimes I think of the past, of people I've loved and things we did, or things we didn't do. That's when I'm feeling sentimental.

It's not often.

More often, I picture whichever pretty thing has flittered across my imagination that day, whether it's someone real or some make-believe movie-star thing, or maybe even a story I make up in my head, a person that doesn't exist (but I'd like them to).

I believe in the heady rush of orgasm, the heat of skin on skin, the sweetness of kisses, the sharp sting of teeth on flesh. I believe in your hands sliding over the curve of my ass when you slip inside.

I believe in your voice in my ear, whispering ragged things both filthy and beautiful.

I believe in the difference between how it feels when I'm alone, shuddering silently, puncturing the air with only a soft gasp, and when I'm with someone, when it's breathtaking in its intensity, when I collapse against them, sweat dripping, breath quivering, body shaking, my cunt one raw nerve.

I don't know if I believe in God, but I believe in this.

And I believe in love.

And I believe in magic.