I am uncomfortable.
I have clicked on your sexy article and…whoa. I feel like I’m standing in the door with an ice cream cone, vanilla dripping from my elbow and my throat closing up tight as I stare, wide-eyed at the sexy I just walked in on.
Well, this is truly awkward. I don’t know whether to keep reading — because this just got pretty real and personal — or to look away quickly, my eyes, my eyes.
I really don’t know how you do it. Well, actually…I do know how you do it, and with whom, and well…all of those details. It’s a bit warm in here, don’t you think?
Some of you are leading far sexier lives than I. That is not to say I don’t have my fair share of sexy going on (not sure if past tense might be a bit more appropriate here?) but sharing it, whew, I do not know about that.
I can’t. Go. There.
I mean, reading about all of your indiscretions is making me sweat. Don’t get me wrong — I am no prude — but there’s kind of this idea that my sexy is reserved, something I am careful with whom and with however many details I choose to share, discuss, describe.
As humans we are a curious bunch. And we are sexual creatures. Put those two things in a bag and shake them up and you’ve got blogging 101 on a Tuesday afternoon. People love writing about their sexual adventures — and others love reading it.
Forget the daytime soaps of the past. Remember those? Forget Netflix and chill because stepping right into the bedroom with other real people with real faces and lives — and experiencing sex through their eyes is apparently where it is at. People lap this stuff up like kittens to sweet milk.
But. I . Can’t. Go. There.
To disrobe and tell — or not to disrobe and tell
First of all — I am not the only person present during times of sexy (but yes, I know there are articles aplenty about solo-sexy that get lots of attention) and I feel it a bit “revealing” of the intimacy of another person (or persons) and this somehow feels icky to me.
Anonymity. Hm. There’s a thought.
But still, would the icky go away? Or would I feel dishonest? Or would writing about these intimate, personal moments just remind me of things that you know were great for the moment but later you’re like — WTH was I thinking? Would it dredge up old memories and feelings? I wonder about the emotional ride of writing these things.
Perhaps the freedom is liberating, empowering, exciting?
There is no doubt about the strength and truth of this cliché. And it is all but dripping from every advertisement, entertainment source, and subliminal stroking of all things media — so “buying” this flux of heated information can sometimes seem to not even be a choice.
I’ve been lecturing my daughter about this as she rails toward adulthood as if she’ll skip her teenage years altogether. “The world will over-sexualize you enough — you don’t have to do it to yourself.” Which of course is good advice for a young teenager, headstrong, confident and dreaming of becoming a doctor — I cannot let that train get derailed! No. Ma’am. You, stay focused, young lady.
If I advise her on-the-daily to respect herself, shouldn’t I do the same?
Not meaning here that anyone who opens the curtains of their bedrooms and feels bold and confident in that decision is not respecting themselves, not at all.
But that icky thing. That inner-ick that I feel about sharing my intimate moments…if it feels icky to me, and I feel better leaving those curtains drawn, the diary locked and stowed away, then I should respect myself, honor myself in the decision to Not.Go.There.
Right? I mean, what could be sexier than a woman, confident in her own skin — whether she chooses to reveal it or not?
Confidence is “sexy” embodied. Lap that up.
Christina Ward 🌼 2019