Absolutely

July 16, 2021

Dear Diary,

It’s been two days, and I can’t get that swimsuit out of my head. It’s weird—I’m obsessed. Like, really obsessed. I keep picking it up, running my fingers over it, feeling that slick spandex under my thumbs. I want to wear it all the time, just slip it on and feel it hug me again, but I can’t, right? That’s not normal. People don’t walk around in a too-small swimsuit under their clothes—or in bed, or wherever. So I didn’t. Not yesterday, anyway. Had a packed day—uni classes all morning, then my shift at the café till late. Kept it in my bag, though, snuck little touches when no one was looking. By the time I crashed into bed, I was too tired to fight it—fell asleep with it in my hand, tangled between my legs. Woke up with it still there, warm from me, and my heart was racing before I even opened my eyes.

Today, I couldn’t take it anymore. Needed a way to wear it that wouldn’t make me feel crazy. So I went back to the pool—told myself it’s just for laps, totally legit. Slipped it on in my room first, and God, that feeling hit me all over again. Tight, smooth, pulling at me in all the right places. Walked to the pool with a hoodie and shorts over it, but I swear everyone on the street knew—every guy glancing my way, every woman passing by, like they could see it through my clothes. My nipples were already hard, pressing against it, and I didn’t even care.

Swimming was… something else. Laps are supposed to be boring, meditative, but this? It was like the water and I were one, every stroke syncing with my breathing, the swimsuit moving with me. Except it wasn’t just moving—it was rubbing. Every kick, every glide, that tight spandex slid against my labia, my clit, relentless. Half an hour in, I was a mess—blushing so hard my face burned, panting like I’d run a marathon, legs trembling under the surface. I’ve never been this turned on. Couldn’t think straight, could barely keep swimming. It was like my body was buzzing, alive in a way I didn’t know it could be.

Got out, wobbly, dripping, and headed for the showers. That’s when I saw him—some guy in the communal area, rocking a tight Speedo, all lean muscle and no shame. He stared at me, eyes dragging over every inch of that swimsuit clinging to me, wet and shiny. I caught him looking, and—oh God—his dick was straining against his Speedo, pitching a full tent. No hiding it. My stomach flipped, heat rushing everywhere. We didn’t say a word, just grabbed cubicles next to each other. The walls were thin, flimsy, and I couldn’t stop picturing him in there—hand on himself, jerking off to me, to this.

I lost it. Started running my hands all over the swimsuit—over my chest, my hips, pressing hard between my legs. Rubbed myself right there, fast, ****, the spandex slick and warm under my fingers. Then it hit—an orgasm so strong it blindsided me. My whole body locked up, shaking, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from screaming. A deep grunt slipped out instead, low and raw—hope he heard it. Took me a minute to even breathe again, leaning against the wall, dizzy.

Saw him after, at the mirrors by the exit. He was fixing his hair, but his eyes were on me—smiling, staring, shameless. I walked over, still buzzing, and just went for it. “Hey,” I said, voice shaky but bold. “You come here a lot?” He grinned, said yeah, and I asked for his number. Slipped it into my phone—Nick, he’s called Nick. Didn’t say much else, but that look he gave me? Like he knew exactly what I’d just done. Walked out with my head spinning, swimsuit still on under my clothes, wet spot probably showing through my shorts. Didn’t care.

I’m home now, Diary, and it’s still with me—crumpled on my bed, smelling like chlorine and me. I can’t let it go. Something’s waking up in me, and I don’t know where it’s taking me. But Nick’s number’s burning a hole in my phone, and I’m already thinking about the next time I wear this thing. Night, Diary.