Playing without permission and seeking to learn myself through partners is at least in part about shedding my own ideas of who I am along with the societal shackles about femininity, sexuality, and monogamy. I am ready to redefine myself and shed inhibitions. I am ready to demand to be seen.
I am a strange paradox at times. I am an exhibitionist who will show complete strangers on the internet pics of my bits. I like public play: parties, cars, outside and against windows. I give zero fucks who looks at my ass as long as they aren’t aggressive with their actions or dismissive of my mind and person. My boobs are often unavoidably displayed, mostly but not entirely, based on size. I think nothing of sending a video of me dancing in my car or my hands on myself at work.
I have stripped while on a walk with my dog and ended up in just a zippered hoodie that extended beyond my ass while my headphones, bra, dress, leggings, and panties all hung from a hiking marker nearby. I managed to throw the clothes in a nearby bush when an elderly couple came down the path. I stood there talking with them about the fabulousness that is my dog for many minutes wearing only the long sweatshirt and not an ounce of shame.
I once danced with a pack of 20 something Jamaican men at a local place when the music turned from polka and beer boots to a jumping, pulsing, light showered grind fest on the dance floor. I have always gravitated toward the dancers with the highest energy…like I can feed off of them. I had no problem being groped while dancing with a man half my age because he could lead a sexy-as-fuck Bachata.
Then I am embarrassed by strange things.
I sent a video to my love, and I completely freaked sending it. He has seen my every bit, and I trust him completely. Yet, I felt foolish. I planned the video for more than a week, then settled on some rules to complete it. I refused to practice it live more than just marking it through in my mind. I refused to do multiple takes…one and done. I refused to watch it before sending just in case the self consciousness kept me from sending. Even so, I had to have a pep talk from a friend to send it at all.
Insecurity creeps in and says things inside my mind that I don’t appreciate. I lose confidence with my voice, and that I choke on words I have no hesitation typing. Sometimes Insecurity tells me that my ass looks funny in that sheer dress. Insecurity seems to think that forty-somethings should have more figured out than I do. Insecurity laughs at my shoes. Insecurity makes me wonder if there is someone on the other end of those texts and videos wondering what I am abusing when I know I am stone cold sober.
I feel lucky to have partners who tell Insecurity to shut the fuck up.
Insecurity and Inhibition hold hands tightly and they sit, stagnant. They hold me down. They keep me from realizing who I am supposed to be for myself and with my partners. One step at a time, I turn the music up, and I dance. I am led, and I lead. I won’t worry about what I look like. I attempt to turn my attention to the energy in my soul. Melody, harmony and that insistent beat from a singularly focused drummer makes me move safely without judgement. The energy resonates within myself, and I get to decide where that energy goes when I set it loose.
Fuck Insecurity. Fuck Inhibition. The two of you are no longer welcome here.