Thanks for the email, but you don’t have to be embarassed by my sexuality. I know you feel the need to save your praises for private because you’re a big shot/celebrity/lawyer/news anchor/executive something/father, or whatever other identifier raises your importance above mine, but there’s really no need to worry.
I am not a predator, try not to think yourself so persecuted.
I know I wrote a piece about sexuality and inequality and my broken disappointed heart and used words like pussy and dick (and maybe next time I won’t stop short of using anal), but those are not things to be ashamed of. I am sorry you feel the need to read my words with the lights out.
Maybe you want to hide in the privacy because single girls have been known to wander (this is a warning from your mother) but I am not here to scandalize you.
You don’t have to be ashamed to spread my words (which are not my legs), or to be seen talking to me. After all, your intentions are entirely innocent, no?
So while I appreciate the email, about how much you enjoyed my writing, you should have just ended it there. It’s flattering to know that my appearance pleases you and how you think I’m going to find a great guy some day, but you should know that I have already found one. Several actually. And that my having of them probably won’t fit with your idea of how my life should be. But that’s not my problem (and I’m not even entirely clear on why it’s yours).
I don’t want to get married.
I don’t want to find the one.
I want the many.
I want to hear a hundred stories. I want to lay down with men who change the composition of my surroundings. I want to know the world. I am greedy but not selfish. I want more than my hands can hold, and so I stand facing it all with open fingers. I want to kiss and laugh and love and fuck and be my true self and rip my heart open and spill it on the floor for all to see.
I don’t want a gated community, a picket fence, a sofa to sink into. It is already hard enough to stand up tall everyday, I don’t need more things hemming me in.
So, thanks for the email, but it’s not necessary.
You see, I don’t need you to save me. And I know for sure that I cannot save you.
I know I posted that thing about the boy who reacted poorly to my large frame and the things about men who try to woo me with discussions of my body. I know I got angry and frustrated and lost faith in humanity for a second but I’m only human. I am an elastic woman and likely to bounce back.
So, I know you got to see the flaws and the heartache and the sadness, and maybe that stirred something in you but none of these things mean I need you to save me. They are not about you. You already chose your life and this private weirdness that you’re creating with your power and your secrecy is affecting my balance (so you should stop).
I’m standing up here, spine only partially made of jelly. Mostly strong enough and not nearly as alone as you might think (and frankly, my friends and family all feel a little jilted that you’ve minimized their roles so emphatically in my life as to think that one singular man could replace them entirely).
So thanks for the email, but your secrecy has splinters.
Words that should be innocent enough off the tongue, show up dressed in your issues and your shame and your inadequacies. Your email is a time bomb and frankly, sir, I don’t need your bullshit.
So unless you’re ready to stand up tall and stop acting like my sexuality is an affront to your marriage, your personhood, and your fucking existence…unless you’re ready to stop pretending that my comfort and expression is a threat to your way of being…unless you’re ready to stop imposing your danger onto me…
I would just as soon prefer that you kept your praises in your pockets and your heavy words out of my box.