Welcome to Wicked Wednesday! This week’s prompt is about skeletons in our closet.
Skeletons? What skeletons?
Up until I was 32, I didn’t have good sex, I didn’t have orgasms, I certainly didn’t have a sex blog. So no sexy skeletons.
Now at 35, I’ve never committed a crime – unless accidentally running a red light counts (even though I apologized to the empty air as it happened). I don’t lie – I simply don’t speak; a lie of omission, if you will. I keep my judgmental thoughts to myself or between John Brownstone and I (and he gives me the disapproving “Babygirl” if I get too bad). I don’t do much.
There are some who would probably consider my erotica writing and publishing a skeleton – or the fact that I keep it secret, a skeleton. Maybe so. But I don’t. That’s all that matters.
I don’t think I’m better than anyone for not having a skeleton or two in the closet.
I think I’m quite boring, actually.
Skeletons in the closet implies shame about something. My life is an open book – for those who ask the right questions. My erotic life is an open book – for anyone willing to read a while.
Are there things in my life that I wish had been different, were different, are different?
Yep. But they aren’t skeletons. They’re lessons.
My father had skeletons in his closet. I know that because as a child, he never talked about his childhood and told me fantastical stories about his life before I was born. Stories I found out after his death weren’t entirely true. He wanted to hide something about himself, something he wasn’t proud of. What he never realized is that he raised me better than he knew. I would never have judged him, even if I wish certain things hadn’t happened. He spent my entire life hiding his past, hiding what he considered skeletons. And now I may never know the truth, his truth.
That’s what skeletons do – they hide your truth. My truth can be pretty boring at times and it can be steamy. I see no reason to hide any of it.
No skeletons here. Just stories waiting to be written and questions waiting to be answered.