Dear Big O,
It’s been a long time. Too long. I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately and how much I’d like to catch up, but I’ve been pretty busy these days and I don’t really know that you’d come. If you know what I mean.
Sometimes I wonder if you resent me. For so many years, and starting out in my teens, I pushed you away. As soon as I started to feel the slightest hint of you, I got scared and stopped immediately. Years passed, and it didn’t even matter if I was alone or not.
The fear grew.
I stopped short before I could feel you--all of you--just because I was too scared to let go and lose control.
And of course, because I felt so guilty. Rubbing my clit and exploring my own body for waves of pleasure was supposedly my quickest ticket to hell. You were a dirty word, like fuck and cock and sex itself.
I believed everything they told me about you. Like that you had to be uttered in hushed tones or never talked about at all. Or that you were somehow dangerous, so I remained too afraid to let go. Despite so much of the world clearly enjoying theirs, I couldn’t bring myself to let you in.
You were a mystery, a foreign tune. I pondered every reason you might be called the little death. I kept telling myself that maybe one day I would understand.
It’s a little bit funny, but I can still remember being frightened of you. Even now. Though I don’t know exactly what I was afraid of, to be honest. But I admit I was afraid for long enough that we never even got acquainted before I turned 31.
Oh, what can I say? It’s so true that old habits die hard. After year after year of pushing you away due to such strange and unnecessary fears, it seems I’m pretty prone to losing you no matter what I do. Is it any wonder?
Of course, this isn’t how I’d like for things to be.
To be totally honest, I would love to be able to think of you as a little more reliable. But wait! To be fair, I know it’s not your fault nor mine when you’re so damn hard to find.
It’s simply one of those things--and something very few people even talk about. Much less understand. An often misplaced orgasm still isn’t considered appropriate dinner conversation, after all.
But it’s not you--it’s me, old friend. And no, I’m not blushing because I’m embarrassed of you. I’m embarrassed of me. You must believe me. For anybody raised like I was, it’s completely natural. To have once been so wary my former fears left real and lasting marks.
If it makes you feel any better, I’m not mad in the least that you so often go into hiding. I’m not. And I promise to keep looking for you even when it’s a challenge. Oh yes, I promise to keep practicing my ability to relax.
Who knows? Maybe one of these days we can be a little less like strangers on a train, and at least a little better acquainted.
Wouldn’t that be something nice?
Originally published on Medium.