A new, and I hope lingering, friend e-mailed in response to some of my more recent and saucy blog posts:
The freedom to be your own person is...enormously attractive. Women who live that way, all independent and confident, are just sexy as hell.
It’s the best e-mail I got all week.
I always believed that. Now I live it and write about it openly. I’m aware and conscious of my small blog readership (although the international contingency and those searching on keywords “thumb in vagina” are a bit of a head scratcher). A blog is personal and not. It's confessional, pulpit and sometimes just plain silly fun. I want to say anything, but when is telling too much too much?
I often joke, “That’s a story for the book, not the blog”, as if that’s more intimate. I write from experience; observational comes far easier than fictional, and I don’t hide behind the “I have a friend…” scenario. Perhaps I portray more of who I want to be than who I am right now, but I counter it with some angst and vulnerability. I never really felt all that sexy before; being open and available and bold and asking for what I want has done more to take me to that place than the lingerie, working out or wine (although all definitely help). And now I choose to say it all out loud. No games attached, no playing hard to get, no ulterior motives. Simple as that. And, apparently, sexy as hell.
But I confess. I pulled this post as first written. It got a little too close. It was a story for the book, not the blog.