I forget, from time to time, that to the vanilla world, I’m a bit twisted. Perverted. Living a distorted life.
The entirety of the world (vanilla or kinky) gives my life no thought. But if brought to their attention and given the freedom to express their opinion — like on social media (ugh), to some, I’m a freak. Dirty. Bad. Corrupt.
To me, I’m just me. I live my life. I hurt no one. And I genuinely give zero thought to how others might perceive my life.
As a recovering perfectionist who always wants to do whatever is deemed “right” and follow the rules, I’m always shocked when I can set aside societal expectations. I care so much about doing the correct thing (whatever that might mean) that I stumble over simple tasks like making a phone call or walking into a place of business, because I might say something weird or do something wrong.
But I live my life semi-openly as a kinky woman. Proudly. Happily.
I work in a field that barely exists. (Yes, writers exist but sex writer isn’t exactly mainstream.) I’m trying to create a career for myself that I’m not even sure I can. And I fucking love it. I have zero concern about getting anyone’s approval beyond John Brownstone’s.
It’s strange how brains work. What it considers acceptable and what it doesn’t.
I find it untenable to walk into a social situation and not know what’s expected of me. To not say the right thing or behave like I “should.” But I also ignore other multiple societal norms — consistently walking out of my house without make-up or underwear on, living life as a submissive woman, and always (always) laughing too loud and taking up too much space.
As I’m getting older (I’m on the downward slide to 40, y’all — whoop whoop), I find that I care less and less what others think or what’s expected of me. But it’s still there, below the surface, popping up in the weirdest moments.
How can I ask for help at a store if I don’t even know the right word to use for what I’m looking for?
What if I call to make an appointment, and they don’t know what I’m talking about?
Do you have to stay during a kids’ birthday party or can you just leave? If I ask, will they think I’m weird? (True story, my kids have gone to so few that I don’t actually know what the correct procedure is.)
And yes, the logical thing to do is to ask. But while potentially doing the wrong thing and feeling stupid is painful to me, opening my mouth and proving I’m clueless is even worse. I can’t stand the look from people that says, “Weirdo” or “WTF?” Too many memories of childhood, filled with those kinds of looks, haunt me. I can’t be the weirdo who doesn’t know something.
Even now, after all these years pretending to adult properly, I still feel like there are things I should just “know” and when I don’t, I’ll avoid it rather than ask. If I can figure it out on my own, I’ll do it — Google is my friend, y’all. But if I can’t (and social norms and customs aren’t always easily Googled), I’ll skip it. Stay silent. Fall back. Avoid the thing completely.
All because the fear of being wrong makes me anxious.
And yet, like I said before, I live the “wrong” life by so many other standards and I could give less than a fuck what anyone thinks about it. In the big moments that really matter, I can walk my own path, do my own thing, live my own life, and shrug if you think I’m wrong.
But in the small, inconsequential things — still necessary but much less important — I freeze, terrified of being wrong.
Brains are weird.
This week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt is “twisted.” My head isn’t in a sexual or erotic place right now, so this is what I’ve got. For something MUCH better, click the button below.
I’m also writing every damn day in June. To see who else is and read their work, click THIS button too!