Thursday, November 10, 2016

I Have Power, It's A Struggle

I had an epiphany. Although, maybe I already secretly knew it.

Out to dinner with an old friend, it struck me. I have the power. Sometimes I need the reminder though. Other times, I need to remember to believe it.

Here's what I love now: I love being with a man and watching him get a little squirmy as he's overcome with the realization that I may write about him. I hold back a little to observe. I just dip my toes in at first. I like to test the waters. I want to see what he'll do. And before he realizes it, I've already written it all down in my head. It's a new kind of super power that I have.

It's a game. It's a challenge for him to get me to notice. Or to chat. Or to come over. After the coaxing ends, and when I get comfortable enough to just dive in, he wins. But he doesn't really win. Because I'm not giving up too much that first time. I'm experimenting without realizing it. Besides, he loves the thrill. Once he's in it though, once the thought washes over him that he could be tangled up in my words, and blasted out for the world to read, he gets a little scared. 

Should I be flattered or offended? I think it's a bit laughable that there's an assumption that I would write about him - any of the him's. They already find themselves so important, so memorable, so worth writing about. I have rules. No names. No writing until it's over. No writing until it's worth it.  

But I also have a power in my actions. A text. A snap. A phone call. I can do whatever I want and not feel stupid or dumb or rejected. I can just be. I can ask. I can live my life like a free woman, and not give any man power enough over me to make me feel anything less than I am. And, of course, that whole other bag of cards I hold. The writing, the knowing, and the words; the ones worth having fun with or fooling around with or starting a relationship with won't get scared or finicky about what I do. Instead, they'll embrace it. They'll actively support it.

But then comes the struggle. The power of my words holds a lot of weight. Sometimes there's a secret or two that, once released, could hurt someone. It could make them feel weird. It could change their way of thinking about me or someone else. That's a consequence of what I'm doing but I also have to be authentic in my stories.

I recently wrote about an experience that is too good not to share. It's complicated and out of left field and a little hilarious too. I want to publish it, and let you read it, and laugh, and blush, and feel a little dirty as you follow the rhythm of the words. But there's a new element to this one. It could come with a consequence that I haven't dealt with yet. It could hurt someone that I care for deeply. Or, at the very least, our bond would be a bit tarnished. I've been wrapping my head around it, keeping it in forever, or continuing to follow this path I've set out for myself.

"Sex and the Country," they keep telling me, that's what I need to rename the blog as I sort out my Carrie Bradshaw alter ego.

I've decided to follow the path. I'll stay genuine and continue to be an open book. I'll continue to share all the embarrassing things. I'll continue to share all of the wonderful things too. But this thing, this great thing I wrote over the weekend that I've reread, and allowed my friends to read ,and gush a bit over, that's being saved for the book because it's just too good.

In the meantime, these snippets shall hold you:

"She threw over a piece of bubblegum, "It's all I got," she said. It tasted like it was from 1997 but was better than nothing since I had no toothbrush in sight."

"But when his Insta name came across my phone notifying me of a new "like," the mood struck and I felt a little gutsy."

"We hugged and we both said how good it was to see each other. I was taken aback by his height and his strength though."

"His face was in the side of my neck when he said, "But I like control."

"I knew I was in trouble with that statement. His new nickname is now "trouble."

"He has nice hands. They felt good. Actually, they felt so good that I wouldn't let him turn up my sweater anymore because I knew if I felt them on my bare skin that I'd lose all inhibitions. So I stopped it. He told me I was tense. I agreed."

"And then we were kissing again and he whispered in my ear, "Kiss my neck. Then you can write."

"He's not really an asshole though. He just has a tough shell and it's coated in sarcasm and sexy eyes. Again, his hands aren't bad either."

What's hilarious about all of this, I'll probably get a few texts or questions about those above snippets. One may have it right. Most will have it wrong. That's my power, and for now, I'm just going to embrace it and laugh at the ones that are too scared to continue the fun.

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