Today was about textures. The coarse wool of a barista's sweater as I pressed against her back while she steamed milk. The cool glass of a businessman's watch against my cheek as I knelt between his legs in a private elevator. But nothing compares to the slick heat of a stranger's pussy clenching around my fingers as she tries to focus on her yoga class. She's in downward dog, breathing deep, completely unaware of how two invisible fingers are curling inside her, finding that perfect rhythm that makes her thighs tremble. Her concentration is magnificent—she thinks her sudden gasp is just from the stretch, not the sudden thrust that just made her cunt drip onto the mat. The ultimate meditation: being so present in your body you don't question why it's screaming with pleasure.