I’m a stripper and it’s been my fantasy since I was 14. I find pleasure stripping in front of many people. I’ve seen a lot of other strippers making a lot of money entertaining people this way. These strippers I admire, they have a way to enthrall you and make you wanna strip your own clothes off. That’s what I want. To arouse other people while I strip off ’til I’m naked and make them want to touch me and go naked, too. I want them to burst with emotions they would’ve otherwise shown if they don’t see my nakedness. Ahh…and to see them suppress their mouths from screaming while they trace my sensitive and private curves, I’m sure it’s going to be one steamy night.
That’s me and I’m proud of what I do. I’m a writer and I compare writing to stripping. My sensitive and private thoughts are out in the open, for other people to dissect piece by piece. I arouse their thoughts, too. There’s no way I can remain fully clothed in the eyes of my readers because, whether I write about myself or not, a part of me reveals itself through the words I write. Every word, paragraph or dialogue I put on paper is a piece of clothing that I take off of me revealing parts of who I am I wished were hidden. It’s not only those parts revealed that become the object of entertainment and gasps and whispering. Mystery sells. What else can she reveal? What’s underneath those exteriors? Whom is she writing it for? Whom is she writing about? This last question brings the greatest fear to me.
I’m afraid. What is there to be had if I share what I have in mind, a piece of me that probably not too many wanted? What are they going to think if they discover whom I am writing about? What is he going think?
This urge to put down words on paper is almost sexual. It has the characteristic of being so raw and torrid. The urge only goes away when satisfied and you’ll feel them coming over and over again. I could start hiding it with fine words but, if I explode as I go along, I would not know how to cover up. I’d be taken over by what I feel and forget that, in the end, I might face embarrassment. If only feelings this strong can be killed if I poke the paper with my pen ’til it’s ripped into pieces then I wouldn’t feel naked like I do now. I’m blurting out his name in between every word I write. I am so afraid.
“You are good with words,” he said.
“Thanks, I’m seriously flattered,”
I said.He stared at my nakedness.
He knew it’s about him.
