oh, there she is: my sexuality

11/27

I am a woman still.

12/3

I can mold myself into whoever anyone needs. It’s a handy skill but it leaves me feeling outside of myself. Like I’ve pooled all my self into my hands - an offering - and it’s beginning to eek out between my fingers. Drip drip drip, a pool on the floor.

I don’t know why I sought out a reason to see him today. I both wanted him to know I wasn’t avoiding him, and I wanted to see how I would feel around him after what he said to me last week. Drawn to what feels familiar, a moth to a flame. Unwanted (though not always) attention from inappropriate sources. It’s not that I feel safe in these situations, but I do find my self basking in their chaos. And it is nice to be chosen even if the intensions are not honest. Often, those are the only intentions I know how to tolerate.

How far can I push myself before my tolerance is reached? And even then, what would that look like? What’s the worse that could happen? Why do I want to find out?

12/4

It was similar today - nervous in his presence but also seeking it out, anticipating my reactions. It is the same as my boss who would flirt with me despite having a girlfriend. There is a boundary to these interactions that I find room to breathe in. Obviously, this won’t go anywhere for reasons that are legitimate to voice. I can relax into the fact that I have an escape route. It is also fun, nice, sexy to feel chosen by inappropriate sources. I enjoy these interactions in the sense that they excite me the way that a haunted house excites me. I do not know what to expect, I am scared, I am intrigued.

I do not understand this tendency of mine. I would like to know more, but I do not know how to approach it without saying it out loud to someone else. That feels far too revealing, embarrassing. Would they think of me as weird, perverted, a pick-me whore?

12/5

There is something empowering about the whole endeavor. As if these are the only interactions with men where I can step into myself as someone who is desired. I know that nothing will come of it (if I don’t want it to) because there is so clearly a line I could draw to boundary the relationship. These guardrails give me enough of a sense of safety that I can allow myself to be a woman in these interactions. I do not seek to hide behind an asexual facade, baggy clothes or avoided eye contact. I am someone who can be desired. What does that feel like, Nicole? It feels empowering, intoxicating, like my entire body is occupied with my own presence. I am solid, sturdy, capable, real. Reflected in these men’s eyes, I am a woman. There is nothing so inherently wrong with me that they see me as repulsive, a lost cause, a misguided child. These fears become so loud around men who I don’t have an excuse for. I don’t work for or with them, they don’t have a partner, etc.. The potential for anything real becomes, well, too real. I clam up. Instead of a woman, I become a child. Stuck, scared, frozen, shameful. I do not know how much of me they’ll want, not that I know with men who are inappropriate choices, but at least if it becomes too much, then I have an escape route.

I am learning that I love the feeling of being desired, of being viewed as a woman, but only so much that I still feel a semblance of control, I still see a way out if I need to run. Nice guys seem to block my emergency exits, whereas inappropriate ones leave them wide open.

12/7

I saw an exiled part of myself yesterday in therapy. Crouched in a corner, terrified, willing herself to be invisible. After, pushing the button in the elevator, I understood: oh, that was my sexuality.

Today, someone asked me “have you ever had a boyfriend or a serious fling?” I feel my face hot. I gag on the urge to make a joke of myself. Keep my composure, “No, no, no. I’m terrible when it comes to men and commitment.” The topic changes, someone else becoming the center of attention. I’m eager to find a way to bring it back to myself, to prove to everyone I’m not embarrassed. I want a second chance at this topic, but I want to be the one in control of it.

I wonder if the interaction was small to everyone else, or if it felt as big to them as it was to me. Radical self compassion. Radical self compassion. Accepting all parts of myself. The part that is shameful of her lack of typical experience. The part that is shameful of her public embarrassment. The part that is imagining what everyone else is thinking of her. The part that is desperate for someone to touch her so she can finally feel worthy of acceptance amongst a group of peers.

It is tight in my chest, clenched in my belly. It is a fear. It is a scream held back. It is years of willing myself invisible when I am dying to be admired naked.

I want to speak to someone who understands me. I do not want to feel like a fool. So much of this is my own story of myself. No one is thinking about me or about my lack of dating or sex. No one cares that my face got red. What happened was that her question touched on my shame. It touched on the part of myself I am terrified of being seen, being judged, being called out, being further exiled. I want to tell that part that I see you. I am sorry you have felt so alone all these years. I would love to hear your story when you’re ready, and I want you to know that I love you as you are. I want you to know that I won’t leave you. I think you are kind and beautiful and worthy as you are. There is nothing about you that needs to change for you to be worthy of acceptance, love, validity. I am sorry you have felt the need to hide for all these years, how lonely that must be. How big of a burden you must carry, and to carry it alone must be awfully heavy. Can I sit with you for a bit?