For days I've been wanting to write this piece. In the back of my mind little phrases and ideas have been tumbling around, going pop pop pop while I walk through my days, like one of those toddler push toys. God, I loved the sound of those. Bought one for my first nephew when he was little - I'm sure my sister appreciated that. They're not the same now though, all plastic and "safe." (you can actually buy this vintage one on etsy.com) Pop pop pop.
Last week in the comments on Beginner's Ball #4, there seemed to be a preponderance of not sharing going on when it came to having spouses reading our erotica. (That's probably a poorly written sentence, but fuck it, I'm just trying to get this damn thing written.) And I've been thinking about that. Pop pop pop. We want to. Share that is. I know I do. But something is holding me back. Others too it seems.
What is it? Do I think he'll be shocked? Actually, knowing how well he knows me, the answer is no. He knows I have a dirty mind, always have. Miss one-track here. So what is it? One comment (and I'm too lazy to go back and see who made it or to quote exactly, so I'll say this now - I probably got it wrong) said something like this - he might think I actually want to do this. Hmmmmmm.
Pop pop pop. Okay. So, is that the case with me? Am I afraid my husband will actually think I want to do some of the stuff I write about? Do I? If I say oh, this is just a story, I'd never do this, am I being dishonest to some degree if what I'm writing about seriously turns me on? If something turns me on, doesn't that mean that deep down I maybe just sorta kinda wanna try it? Pop pop pop.
Yes and no. My favorite answer. In a perfect world, none of this would matter, would it? But it's not a perfect world, hence the yes and hence the no. Yes, because, damn, I've fantasized for years and it would be so fucking hot! But no, because, in the real world people have feelings and all sorts of past issues and it takes almost superhuman enlightenment to get beyond all that. So we invent it in our heads and write it with pen or pencil and paper, or digital fonts of our choosing.
Pop pop pop. So, why then am I still afraid to share? Is it because that would be turning loose a side of myself that has rarely seen the light of day?
I worry that people, specifically my husband (because I live with him and sleep with him), will think that somehow, this new me, this Erobintica person, isn't the real me. The me that people have known for years. And that me certainly didn't read filthy stories, much less write them. That me never told dirty jokes (though laughed at them). That me could never have those kind of thoughts. Pop pop pop.
But that is the real me. Some of these stories I've written/am writing are based on thoughts that have been in my head for literally decades, sometimes most of my life. I've just been afraid of them. Of admitting to them. Of having to defend them. Ah, maybe that's it! Maybe I'm afraid that someone, someone who knows me, knows my past issues, will point that out to me and say "this, what you're doing, is not good, not moral, not healthy." And if someone says that to me, what do I say in response? I don't have an answer for that ... yet. I think some of this long-winded blog writing is a way to work that out. Because I do believe that this new me is the real me, the healthy me.
And damn! I could keep writing and writing and turn this into a War & Peace of a blog post. But I won't. Gotta stop typing sometime and have some breakfast, take a walk before the thunderstorms arrive and get ready to spend a day away from the computer tomorrow, working with my hands helping friends with their "bale-raising."
It will be interesting. We haven't seen these folks for years since they moved away (not that far, but far enough) and we got back in touch thanks to the internet. And I'm wondering if I'll tell them what I'm up to - the writing of erotica and blogging. Yup, should be interesting.