Sometimes there’s things about ourselves that we don’t understand, no matter how hard we try, right? I often experience that, on different topics and occasions, at least.
One of the things that comes most vividly to mind – is sexuality. Not that I’m confused on whether I’m straight or gay or anything in-between those line or outside of the box or any of the plethora of other terms people these days are using. I’m not. I’ve got a firm grip on the things that I like and that I don’t like. All good in that department. Total clarity.
I’m also not confused about whether I like sex or not. Definitely not something that is even a question. And not something anyone would ever get wrong about me, I think. It’s one of those oozingly obvious things, I’m told. Easy to spot, impossible to deny. And instantly admitted when prompted. (Especially seeing as I just wrote a blog on writing erotica somewhere last week).
Yet, the fact that I’m writing this (again), on a public blog, where people (*gasp* maybe even family and colleagues) might read this – still scares me to no end (but I have a bit of an adrenaline junkie streak so hey, still writing it). Plus, honestly, there shouldn’t be any shame in this, anyway.
And THAT is where my confusion starts. The interesting divide between being and showing. It puzzles me to no end. Why? Well….
I like sex. There. I’ve said it. Shocker (!!), even in this day and age, to say out loud.
Strange right, seeing as everyone and their mother is totally doing it.
But that’s the way it is. I don’t even mind talking about it, out loud or in text or in any other way possible. Even when it’s highly inappropriate (yes, I’m THAT colleague. Or friend. Or barely-acquaintance-in-a-bar-very-loudly-speaking-about-escapades). It’s not something I feel should be hidden, or skirted in conversation. Denied and hushed and ignored. Nope. I can and WILL drop all of the ambiguous comments and naughty jokes in any and all conversation.
And though my comfortable-ness in regards to the topic of sex often makes the people around me very uncomfortable, I’ve never really let that stop me (maybe I should have, might’ve had some interesting positive effects on my current quality of life…but that is something I’ll never know). When it comes to my ‘sexuality’ (as in me, as a sexual creature) – it’s just out there. I guess. Sorry not sorry.
Except for when it comes to the physical representation of said sexuality. I have a dirty mind, dirty mouth and dirty fantasy that can last a withering woman for those long and lonely months. And in the realm of actual execution – I ain’t no nun. But when it comes to make-up, clothing and the very important element to any sexual interaction: bodies? I falter.
When it comes to my clothing choices? I’m always the type that’s rather safe than sorry. Total prude. The more I cover up, the braver I feel and that…that kind of annoys me. I’ve always had an appreciation for the people who are comfortable enough to show skin and revel in the power of their bodies. I love looks with miniskirts or crop tops or low-cut dresses with cut-outs. I can’t wear them though. I just. Can’t.
My skirts are under the knee (or get pulled there). My tops are closed-cut and usually lean towards turtle necks. I still have horror-memories of that one time I wore a tube tops and that turned into a constantly-nervously-pulling-it-up-higher-mess.
My dresses are full of fabric and have no strange holes in different places than those that are limb-required.
Not saying that you can’t dress enticingly when you do cover up (I still have a style that tends to show all the right things in all the right ways, in my book) but actually wearing something that’d fall in the ‘risky/trashy’ category? Yikes!
And just the thought of going to a public spa/sauna type of deal (I’ve never done so, and am pretty sure I never will) is straight up terrifying to me. Showing my body? Seeing those of others? Nudity? Visible skin? Fuck no.
It makes me wonder what makes those things feel so different. Makes me wonder where the line is. It makes me think about why I’m comfortable with what I’m comfortable with – and why I fear what scares me. Most people find talking about sex a lot harder than wearing something revealing. A lot of people can easily go to a sauna, but wouldn’t admit they’ve done the dirty deed. So – where did my wires get crossed?
This post was prompted by the fact that I’m seeing some friends this afternoon and I was pondering my clothing options. Which ended up with me delving up a top that I bought somewhere post-break-up when I decide I was going to do the single thing, and do it hard, and put myself out there while feeling sexy-schmexy as fuck.
You might be able to guess: this top has never been worn, been banished to the bottom of a pile of ‘can’t-wear-in-public-clothes’ that I keep as evidence for my trashy (yet unexecuted) tendencies. Yet, every so often, I put it on and try to convince myself that I CAN totally wear this. That I’m brave enough in my body and sexuality. That I could give less than 0 fucks about the opinions of the rest of the world. That I’m a strong and independent woman and I do what I want. That it’s just cleavage, that ain’t ever killed nobody (I hope, that would be a weird ‘motorboating’ accident...)
And then I throw it back in the closet.
WHY – oh devious lord of the sensuous and sexually daring. Why?!
But not today. Today I’m wearing this top. Over. Done. It’s happening.
And as luck will have it the friends I’m seeing will love and not-judge me for it. Cause they’re awesome.