Mirrors And The Need To Get Naked For Strangers
I've been collecting mirrors ever since I moved in. Call it synchronicity or signs from above for why my desire to get naked for strangers has diminished somewhat.
I know nothing about anything, except where I’ve been.
If you aren’t paying me, the risk is all yours.
I’ve been assembling mirrors all around my property. In my yard, in my house. It will soon be a challenge to look any direction without seeing your own reflection looking back at you.
The last text from my little honeybee (ex) read, “I see you 🪞.” But we were only ever looking at ourselves anyways.
I’ve never been a collector of mirrors—this motivation came out of seemingly nowhere. Except the Universe always has plans—even if it takes a decade to reveal them.
I rarely have interest in the opposite sex for sexual reasons. But as my mind has been on the precipice of significant growth and change since I woke up this morning, so too is the greatness of my desire to find any random stranger to get naked with.
In the year of our Lord and Savior two-thousand and twelve, my sister expressed something similar. Seated in the nosebleed of a concert hall, listening to a terrible band we’d driven almost 2 hours for, she suddenly said, “let’s get out of here, I need to get naked.”
So we did.
For a few hours we visited every strip club we could find, before one finally conceded—she could get up on stage as long as she paid the club $20 a song.
We didn’t have any cash, but full of luck. Men like to travel in packs, and the only pack of men in the club travelled their way to us. They agreed to pay the money—as long as I also agreed to get up on stage, naked.
I could see how badly my sister wanted it so I said yes.
In the back room getting ready, I admitted to her, “I’m not wearing any underwear and this is a topless only club...”
“It’s fine, you can wear mine after I get done!”
Problem solved.
Very few things in life are genuinely new. I’d developed a habit for finding myself in nude situations publicly without taking the time to consciously examine it. This was just the first time I would get paid for it.
I stood around uselessly watching her do world-class pole tricks. She made a few dollars, disappointed in the outcome. When it was my turn, “dance slower than you think you should,” she coached me, then hustled every guy at the rail hard to empty their pockets quickly.
Love really can show up in life differently.
I’m far less neurotic these days. I have my daily rituals and routines. When I tell people my bedtime is 7:30 PM they call me an old lady. My neighbor-lady, who barely knew me, kept saying she thought I was a stripper. “Isn’t your name Roxanne, or Roxy, or Raquel?”
Funny how the past echoes. It's all synchronicity.
Like when my friend left me a comment about Octopi invading, and I immediately read an article where the author took LSD and turned into an Octopus before connecting it to signs of synchronicity.
I’m inching closer to a new type of introspection I’ve been running from for a very long time. My whole damned life. And it’s incredible the ways you can get all twisted up inside just to dodge, duck, dive, dip, dodge the hell out of that shit.
So instead of getting naked with someone else, I’m sitting here surrounded by mirrors, finally asking myself the question: Why?
Why am I so terrified of my own reflection that I’d rather spend my entire life running?
No wonder my physical body has been sick for so damn long.
If you've ever felt that sudden urge to sprint away from your own reflection, tell me about it. We can hide out in the comments together.