These are Pages You Were Never Meant to Read. If you’re reading this, you weren’t Meant to.
I wrote these pages for myself, not for you, not for anyone. I told myself I would burn them one day. I still might. But something in me wants to leave them here, like scars I can’t hide. Maybe I want to be found. Maybe I want someone to finally see me the way I really am.

This isn’t pretty. It isn’t clean. Some of it is shame, some of it is desire, some of it is me falling apart and putting myself back together in the worst ways.

It’s a Diary, not a book. A confession, not a story. And if you keep Reading these pages, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

-Sarah

I started writing because I was choking on silence. The kind of silence that follows you into bed, that wraps around you in the shower, that makes your own reflection feel like a stranger.

•••

I don’t even know why I’m writing this tonight. Maybe because my head won’t shut up. I’ve been adopted half of my life, but some days it still feels like I’m standing outside a window, looking in.

So I stayed closed. Too closed. Too careful. I watched other girls get kissed in hallways, touched in dark corners, called “beautiful” like it was the most natural thing. Me? I learned how to smile and disappear.

And then… years later… it happened. I opened myself up. I was old enough to know better, but young enough to be desperate. And once I finally did it, once I finally spread my legs, something broke open in me. Maybe that’s why I spread my legs so late. And maybe that’s why now I can’t seem to close them enough.
It’s like I’ve been starving all my life and suddenly I found food. And I don’t know how to stop eating. Every glance from a man, every brush of attention, I soak it up like it’s the only proof I exist. I hate that about myself. But I also love it. And I don’t know which part of me is telling the truth tonight.

•••

Marriage is not what I thought it would be. When I was younger, I believed marriage was where love went to grow. Where two people built something solid, sacred, safe. That’s what I was chasing when I said yes. Safety. A place to belong. A man to claim me so I wouldn’t feel like that lost girl anymore.

He started to shrink me. Not with fists, but with words. “Why do you have to wear that dress?” “Don’t smile too much. People will get the wrong idea.”

“You like the attention, don’t you?”
At first, I defended myself. I told him I just wanted to feel good in my skin, that the way men looked at me didn’t mean I was inviting them. But the more I tried to explain, the more I realized it wasn’t about me at all...

it was about him. His fear. His insecurity. His smallness. So, I began to dim. I wore looser clothes. I laughed less. I stopped taking pictures. I tried to become invisible, just to keep the peace. But the problem with hiding yourself is that you start to forget who you are.

And in the quiet of our home, when he’d sit on the couch scrolling his phone while I sat next to him aching for conversation, I felt more alone than I ever had in my life.
Even lonelier than when I was that adopted girl wondering why her real parents didn’t want her.
I had a man. I had a house. I had the ring. And still... I was starving. Starving for touch. Starving for intimacy. Starving for someone to look at me the way strangers did, but without shame. Sometimes, I’d catch my reflection in the mirror and think: There she is. She’s still beautiful. She’s still here. Why can’t he see her?

That question haunted me for Eleven years. And then one morning, I woke up and realized... I couldn’t keep shrinking. I couldn’t keep trading my fire for his comfort. I’d rather be divorced and alive than married and dead inside. Walking away wasn’t easy. It broke me. But it also woke me up. Because the truth is, being wanted isn’t enough.
What I want, what I deserve is to be loved out loud. To be looked at without suspicion. To be desired without punishment. To be free without fear.
I promised myself that day: I will never cage myself again for a man’s insecurity. I’d rather burn too bright and scare people off than dim myself to be “safe.” And maybe that’s why I write now. Because these pages don’t ask me to be smaller. They let me tell the truth... the messy, painful, beautiful truth.

•••

I never thought I’d see the day I was free again. Divorce isn’t freedom for everyone... for some, it’s just another kind of cage. But for me, it was a key I never thought I’d be brave enough to turn.

The first night I slept alone in that half-empty house, I thought I would drown in silence. My husband’s absence didn’t feel like relief, it felt like standing naked in the middle of a storm. The walls knew I wasn’t “wife” anymore. The bed knew no one would roll over and pull me close. My body knew too, and that was the cruelest part. Because my body had been waiting. Waiting for years, pressed under duty, starved by routine, ignored by a man who touched me more like a chore than a desire.
I didn’t realize how much of myself I had shut down until there was no ring on my finger and no eyes on me.
That first month, I touched myself every night. Sometimes twice. I would close my eyes and picture men I’d passed in grocery stores, the barista with a crooked smile, my young neighbor who waved when he jogged past.

Shame wrapped itself around me, but heat burned hotter. It wasn’t about them. It was about me remembering I still belonged to myself. One night, I put on lipstick for no one. Red, the kind he never liked because it was “too loud.”
I poured wine, dimmed the lights, slipped into lingerie that had been buried in the back of a drawer for so long it still smelled faintly of mothballs.
I stood in front of the mirror and I stared at the stretch marks on my hips. At the curve of my thighs. At the faint lines around my mouth. At breasts that no longer sat high but still filled my palms perfectly.

And I thought: This is me. This is mine. This is beautiful. I didn’t need anyone to undress me. I undressed myself. I didn’t need anyone to call me sexy. I whispered it out loud, testing how it tasted on my tongue. Sexy. Desired. Woman.

When my fingers slid between my thighs that night, it wasn’t just release... it was a rebirth. I cried when I came, not because I was lonely, but because I felt more alive than I had in years. That was the night I knew this diary should have been burned. Because what kind of woman admits she came harder alone than she ever did with her husband?
What kind of mother admits she felt freer naked under her own gaze than she ever did in her marriage bed? But here it is. My truth. The night I stopped being a wife and started being a woman again.

•••

My daughter came home for spring break last week. still leaving laundry everywhere, still rolling her eyes when I ask too many questions. She told me about college... parties, exams, boys. And of course, her father.
She still adores him.
They went for coffee the first morning she was back, like we were never divorced.

She came back smiling, talking about how he worries she doesn’t eat enough, how he still calls her “his little girl.” I tried to smile too, but it hit me harder than I wanted to admit. There’s something I hate admitting, even to these pages.

My daughter is nineteen now. And sometimes, when I look at her, I don’t just see her. I see the youth I’ve lost, the freedom I never had, the body that once was mine. When she gets dressed to go out... little skirts, tops that cling to skin. I feel two things at once. Pride, because she’s beautiful. Shame, because I envy her. And then there’s the darker thing I don’t want to write down, but I have to: sometimes I feel turned on by her freedom. The way she moves without apology, the way men’s eyes follow her. I remember being ignored at her age.

Nobody’s gaze lingered on me. But now,standing beside her, I get looks. Not just for me... sometimes I can’t even tell if it’s me, or if they want her. And God help me, sometimes I don’t care which.

It started last summer. We went to the pool. She laid out in the sun, headphones in, stretching her legs. I laid beside her, in my one-piece, feeling the stretch marks tighten under heat. The lifeguard kept glancing our way. Young, early twenties, body like it had been carved for girls like her. But I saw his eyes slip, from her breasts to mine, from her tummy to my hips.
For a moment, I felt a thrill. Not for myself, not even for her, but for the comparison. It was like I was alive again, standing in her shadow but glowing anyway.

That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I touched myself in the shower, shame choking me with every stroke. I imagined him pulling me aside, whispering “Mrs.” into my ear, pressing me against the wall where nobody could see.

And then I hated myself. What kind of mother imagines fucking the same boy who stares at her daughter? What kind of woman lets jealousy twist into lust? But the truth is, I can’t unsee it now. I notice everything. The way men at restaurants look twice when we walk in together. The way older men smile at me politely, but younger ones glance between us like they’re weighing who’s more tempting. Sometimes I dress up on purpose when we go out, just to see if their eyes will flicker to me.

I’ve even caught myself stealing her clothes from the laundry. A little skirt. A cropped tank. I’ll slip them on when I’m alone in my room, standing in front of the mirror. And for a second, I’m not 47. I’m not tired. I’m not a mother. I’m just a woman, dangerous and alive, dripping in something I thought I’d lost forever. I should be ashamed. And I am. But I also can’t stop.

This is why this diary should have been burned. Because these thoughts don’t belong to a mother. They don’t belong to a woman who is supposed to love her daughter purely, cleanly, proudly. They belong to something darker. Something raw. Something I don’t even want to name.

And yet, here I am. Writing it down. Because if I don’t put it here, I’ll explode. And maybe one day, someone will read these words and finally understand: I’m not the woman you thought I was. I’m not just a mother. I’m not just a wife who lost her place.
I’m not even just a woman rediscovering her body. I am her shadow. And sometimes, that shadow feels more alive than the woman herself.

•••

I always thought “MILF” was an insult.
A label men used to laugh about women my age while secretly jerking off to them.
Something dirty. Something that meant you weren’t young anymore, you were a category... a fetish... I hated the word.

At least until it was used on me. It happened at the “WeChat” office I worked at, of all places. I was helping a young man set up his phone. He was maybe twenty, twenty-one at most. My daughter’s age.
He kept staring too long when I leaned over, and I felt that strange rush again... the same one I get when men don’t quite know whether to look at me or at her. He left with his new phone. A few minutes later, I overheard him talking to his friend near the door. They thought I couldn’t hear.

“She’s such a MILF,” he said, laughing under his breath. And instead of bristling, instead of wanting to correct him or shrink away, I felt my tummy twist and my thighs clench. MILF. The word slid down my spine like a hot finger. It curled between my legs before I could stop it.

I pretended not to notice, but the whole shift I felt soaked, my panties damp against my skin. I couldn’t even think straight helping the next customer, my mind replayed that word, over and over.

MILF.

When I got home, I shut myself in the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. I didn’t look like a porn category. I looked like me... tired eyes, lipstick smudged, hair tied back in a messy knot. But I could still hear his voice, could still feel that word turning my shame into something wet and hungry.I slipped my hand between my thighs before the bathwater even filled. I told myself it was just stress, just release.
But the truth? I came twice just imagining his laugh, his friend’s grin, the way the word stuck to me like sweat.

MILF.

The word I thought I’d hate forever is now the one that makes me shiver. I should be embarrassed. But all I want is to hear it again. Louder. Dirtier. I hated the word until it slid down my spine and into my sheets.

•••

He walked into the store where I worked, fumbling with a brand-new phone he couldn’t get set up.
we showed him how to transfer his contacts, helped him get his SIM card working. He was polite, sharper than most boys his age... not one of those twenty-one-year-olds who hide in their rooms playing video games all day. He actually looked me in the eye, listened when I spoke, and joked with me like I wasn’t just some woman behind a counter.

By the time I handed the phone back, he had slipped in a casual, “Mind if I call you if I screw this up again?” I laughed, gave him the store card... but later that night, somehow, he texted me directly. Said the system must have saved my number when I keyed it in. I should have ignored it. Instead, I answered. I swore I’d never let myself go here. I swore I’d draw the line. But he keeps pushing me closer.
He’s twenty-one. My daughter’s age. That alone should make me lock this diary, burn these pages, and go back to pretending I don’t crave things I shouldn’t. But it’s not that simple.

He works part-time near my Store, and somehow we keep running into each other. At first, it was nothing.... small talk, a smile too long, a joke that lingered in the air. But then he called me something that split me in two.
“Mrs.” Not “Ma’am.” Not “Miss.” Just Mrs. like he knew exactly what that word does to me. He grinned when he said it, too, like he could see me flinch. Like he could smell the way heat rushed between my thighs.
And since then, it’s been a game.He’ll text me little things. Nothing outright dirty, but close enough. “Mrs., did you eat lunch today?” “Mrs., don’t work too hard.” “Mrs., I can help you carry that if it’s too heavy.”

Every time, that stupid title makes me wetter than I want to admit. It’s respectful and filthy at the same time. Like he knows I’m older, knows I shouldn’t want him, and dares me to anyway.

I try to play it off. I’ll tease him back, safe little comments that could be innocent... or not. “You’re too young to worry about me.” “Shouldn’t you be texting girls your age?” “You say that now, but you wouldn’t keep up with me.”

The way he laughs tells me he hears the invitation buried underneath.Last week, we brushed hands when I passed him something. His fingers were warm, steady. Mine trembled just enough for him to notice.
He leaned in, close enough that his breath touched my ear.
“Careful, Mrs.,” he whispered. “You might start something you can’t stop.” I nearly came right there, standing in the middle of a crowded store.
I went home that night and fucked myself to the thought of his voice, that word, his lips brushing my skin. My sheets were damp by morning. There hasn’t been sex. Not yet. But I know where this road leads. And the truth is, I don’t know if I want to slam the brakes or step on the gas.

All I know is this: if he calls me Mrs. again, I’ll sit on his face.

•••

I shouldn’t be writing this on my lunch break, but I need to get it out before it eats me alive.
The truth? I still like being looked at.
Sometimes I think I like it more now than when I was young, maybe because it doesn’t happen as easily anymore. But when it does, when I feel it, it shoots straight through me like lightning.

The uniform doesn’t help. The stupid t-shirt and those fitted pants.... they’re supposed to look professional, but on me, they cling... The fabric hugs my tummy, presses against my chest, outlines curves.
I sometimes forget I even have until I see the way men’s eyes hesitate. They come in asking about Mobile plans, upgrades, phones. They try to look at the display cases, at the contracts. But I’ve caught them. The flicker in their gaze. The way their voice stumbles just a little when I lean forward. And it makes me wetter than I’d ever admit out loud.

I stand there, nodding about Packages and Tracking codes, while my nipples harden under the fabric. I smile like I don’t notice, but inside, my thighs are tight together, pulsing with the kind of ache no paycheck can cover.

The worst part? I like the secret. Knowing I’m playing two games at once... the professional, polite employee, and the woman who is daring them to keep staring.

Today, one of the younger techs brushed past me in the back. Too close. Too intentional. His arm grazed mine and lingered a second longer than it should have. I froze, my body lit up, and for one stupid second, I wanted to pull him into the stock room and tell him to do more. Instead, I walked to the break room, sat down with my sandwich, and wrote this.
I should be ashamed. I should be afraid someone will find these pages. But mostly? I’m turned on.

•••

I don’t even know why I’m writing this tonight. Maybe because I feel that ache again, the one I’ve never been able to name out loud. It always comes back.
No matter how old I get, no matter how many men I let in, it’s always there. Being adopted meant smiling through questions I never asked for. Teachers would ask about my “real parents.” Kids whispered that I was the “unwanted one.”
I never said anything, but I heard it. Every word. It sank in deep. I grew up carrying that invisible stamp: not chosen.
I remember lying awake when I was 12, staring at the ceiling, imagining someone coming into my room, pulling me close, whispering, “You’re mine.” Not in the way a father would, not in the way family should, but in some darker, hungrier way I didn’t even understand yet. It scared me, but it also soothed me.

And now? I’m a grown woman, divorced, old enough to know better, and the fantasy hasn’t left. It’s just gotten dirtier. When a man grabs me too hard, when he pushes me against a wall, when he calls me “his”… it lights something up inside me that nothing else ever has. I hate how much I need it.

Sex for me has never been just about skin. It’s about proof. Proof that someone wants me bad enough to take me. To claim me. To erase that little girl who thought she’d never be wanted. Every time a man pulls my hair, holds my wrists down, or tells me I belong to him, it feels like I’m finally being chosen. Even if it’s just for a minute. Even if it’s just a lie.
Sometimes after they leave, I sit on the edge of the bed and cry. Not because I’m sad about the sex. God, no. But because for those moments, I believed I mattered. And when the door shuts, I can feel the emptiness come crawling back, wrapping around me like it always has. I wonder if that’s why I let myself go further than I should. Why I flirt with men I shouldn’t, or why I let strangers hold me like they’ve known me forever. I don’t want flowers or promises.

I don’t want love letters or dinners. I want a man who sees me, wants me, and makes me his in the rawest way possible.
I want men to do to me what nobody ever did: claim me like I matter. Like I was worth choosing. And maybe that’s why this is the diary I should have burned. Because no matter how many words I write, I know the craving will never leave.

•••

I should have just gotten dressed and gone to bed. That would’ve been the normal thing to do. But tonight, I couldn’t stop myself.
I stood in front of the mirror, naked, the bathroom light spilling too harshly across my skin.

The first thing my eyes went to were my little stretch marks. Thin white lines across my hips, faint claw marks on my thighs. The leftovers of years I can’t erase.
My tummy isn’t as flat anymore, but my breasts still sit as high… I turned sideways and saw the curve of my body, the way my hips still fill a room. I should’ve felt disgust, but instead my thighs pressed together like they had a secret to keep.
I pulled on the red lingerie I bought last month and told myself it was “just for me.” The lace dug into the softness of my waist, my nipples pressed hard against the thin fabric, and for a second I felt nineteen again. Young, reckless, untouched by time.

Then it hit me. A thought I should never have had. I pictured him.... my daughter’s boyfriend... standing in the doorway, watching. The way he’d probably look at me if I walked into the kitchen like this.
I hate myself for even thinking about it, but once it slipped in, I couldn’t push it away. Would his eyes drop to my chest the way I’ve caught them doing before when he thought I wasn’t looking?
Would he hesitate, guilty, before wanting me more because of it? The shame of imagining it burned through me, but it only made the heat between my legs worse. I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at myself in that mirror, hand sliding down my tummy.

My reflection didn’t look like a mother anymore. She looked like a woman begging to be fucked, begging to be wanted, even if it was wrong. Especially because it was wrong. When I came, it wasn’t gentle. My back arched, my thighs trembling, as if the whole room knew what filthy thought had pushed me over.
I stared at myself the whole time... at the flushed cheeks, the biting lip, the shame in my own eyes. The guilt was supposed to kill the orgasm, but instead it made it sharper, crueler.
I laid there afterward, chest heaving, knowing this was the kind of thing I should never write down. The kind of thought that proves I’m not the woman people think I am. But it’s already inked into these pages, and maybe that’s why this is the diary I should have burned.

•••

I woke up drenched again. Not sweat, lower. My thighs were sticky, and before I even had the thought, my hand was already there. Like my body didn’t ask for permission.
It felt dirty, pathetic almost, lying there in the dark with the sheets twisted around me. But I couldn’t stop. My fingers moved faster, and I came so hard I had to bite the pillow so I wouldn’t scream. Twice. Maybe three times. I lost count.
After, I just laid there, staring at the ceiling, heart racing like I’d done something criminal. But no one owns this body but me. Not my ex. Not my past. If I want to cum at 2AM, I will. If I want three men inside me, I’ll choose them. And I’ll write it here, even if I should’ve burned these pages long ago.

•••

New year. Same me. Same lies I tell myself. I used to pretend I wanted love. A man’s arms, the slow kisses, the “forever” bullshit. Maybe I even believed it once. But tonight, writing this with the scent of my own fingers still on me, I know the truth.
I don’t want love. I want to fuck. I want to be bent over until my legs shake, until the sheets stink of sweat and sex, until I forget my own name for a while. I want moans louder than promises. I want bruises I can cover with makeup in the morning.

It’s ugly to admit it out loud, even uglier to write it. But it’s my truth.
I wasted too many years waiting for tenderness that never stayed. Now I want hunger, teeth, sweat, cock. Not rings, not vows, not “good morning” texts. Just raw, filthy use of this body I used to hide from mirrors.
If that makes me a slut, then fine. I’ll own it.

I’d rather be a slut in control than a wife who begged for crumbs of affection and maybe one day someone will read this and hate me for it. But tonight? I don’t care. Tonight, I’m wet again, and I want to be ruined.

•••

I shouldn't be writing this. These aren't the kind of thoughts you admit, not even to a diary. But they keep buzzing in my skull at night, and if I don't let them out, I'll go insane.

What if I fucked my daughter's ex?

What if I let them take turns until I couldn't close my legs the next morning?

What if I didn't feel guilty?

what if I loved it?

The fantasies don't wait for permission. They crawl in when I'm folding laundry, or pouring wine, or pretending to sleep. I picture hands younger than mine, rougher, holding me down.
I imagine voices calling me names I'd blush to hear in daylight. Sometimes I touch myself to these thoughts, whispering “no" while my fingers beg for more. Sometimes I stop, disgusted, afraid of who I'm becoming.
But the truth? I don't want romance anymore. I want to be used. I want to give in to the dirtiest version of myself and not apologize after.
Maybe that makes me sick. Or maybe it makes me free. I don't know anymore. All I know is I'll keep writing these sins down, even if every word brings me closer to the fire that should burn this diary to ash.

•••

My bed has been my prison and my altar. I’ve wept in it like a widow, screamed in it like a whore, curled up in it like a lost child.
It has been hell when I begged for love that never came, and heaven when I gave in to the heat that wouldn’t let me sleep.
Every stain on these sheets, every moan into the dark, is etched into these pages.
I don’t know if that makes me brave or broken. Maybe both. Maybe neither.
Should I burn this? Should I let the fire eat every sin I’ve laid bare here? Or should I leave it, hidden but not destroyed, for someone to stumble on? Maybe then someone will know who I really was... not the mother, not the worker, not the woman smiling politely at neighbors... but the one who spread her legs in secret and wrote down the truth of it af

If you’re reading this now, then I never burned it.
My bed was my hell. My bed was my heaven.
And these words are the only proof I lived it....