Like reading erotic fiction late at night when all are sleeping, like pleasuring yourself when no one is home, like having a secret virtual friendship under the domestic roof, like walking home alone in the middle of the night, and of course, like writing an anonymous blog about highly personal issues. Little secrets. Am I cowardly not to be open about these things, afraid of being shamed. Or am I creating a sense of rebellion, resisting those who will define me. Issuing a haughty fuck you to those who seek to entrap me by their own definitions. Women can get lost in the textural forests of their sexual desire. And love it. My secrets are my catch cry. I am malleable, a chameleon, a changeling, a performer and you will not stop my whirling motion. The part of me that is constant is small and deep within. My very core. My visceral home. It is mine alone.
In my whirlwind, I try things on for a time, costume myself, perform, and I seek to be watched and visible. Every performer wants an adoring audience. I was in an elevator this afternoon with several men and I happened to be sucking on a lollipop. I put on an innocent little show. Subtle, but thrilling, perhaps cliched. But even reenacting the stories of cliche can provide some pleasure. Like walking on the wrong side of the tracks.
Would I want someone to be able to read my mind, to have complete openness, a channel of free flowing communication. One being you would perhaps become. Is mystery the active ingredient in love? The cosmic black holes of another's soul that you pour yourself into.
Well now, look at that, obviously I'm not so great at keeping my secrets.