005 The Pleasure Log

I started rating my nights.

Not the dates—not the dinners, the drinks, the half-hearted conversations. I was rating my own moments, the kind I didn’t need anyone else for.

It began on a whim. One quiet evening, curled under my softest blanket, a glass of red on the nightstand and a candle flickering nearby, I reached for myself. The moment was slow, unhurried. A soft video playing on my screen—not loud, not crude, but suggestive enough to stir my imagination.
When it was over, I leaned back, exhaled… and thought: That was a seven.
So I opened a new note on my phone and typed:

Entry #1: Calm mood, half a glass of wine, candlelight, soft-focus video—7/10.

That was months ago. Now, I’ve got dozens of entries. Each one with details:

• The scent of the room.
• The kind of touch I used—slow, fast, circular, teasing.
• The videos that played—some romantic, others more daring.
• Whether I had wine, green tea, or nothing at all.
• What time of day.
• What I was wearing—or wasn’t.

The best score so far? A solid 8,5. That night, I wore silk. The screen played a black-and-white film, slow and intense. I’d tried a new herbal oil and let my thoughts wander freely, untethered. My breath was shallow by the end, my thighs trembling, my heart racing like I’d run a marathon without ever leaving my bed.

It’s not just about sensation—it’s science. Exploration. A private experiment in pleasure.
Someday, maybe, I’ll write a paper. Or maybe just keep collecting data. Either way, I’ve never known myself better.