» My Naked Heart

We're on our second or third date, and the conversation is pleasant. Laughter comes easily. i'm feeling comfortable, feeling like the relationship might actually develop into someting. Yee-Hah! A bit of personal information comes flying out of my mouth and streaks out the door, shining like the moon in all of its naked glory. The man may or may not look at me as if to say "What was that all about?"" He may actually respond with a bit of his own personal information. Usually, I just take another sip of wine and laugh it off, but later on, when I'm home alone, I shake my head and say to myself, "You did it again."

I've thought a lot about why I do this. It doesn't feel intertional or self-destructive. It feels spontaneous and free. Why shouldn't a man know that I got sunburned on a clothing-optional beach in Hawaii last year? Okay, I know the answer to that one, but sometimes it seems as though the errant tidbit just fall into the conversation naturally. The little voice that ought to be editing my words before they hit the airwaves seems to disengage when I'm having a good time. There's a stronger voice persent, and this one is saying, "Now here's a guy who will understand you. Let it all hang out, baby!" I'm old enough to remember the streakers of the 60s and the 70s. It was a popular way to show one's boldness and joiede vivre. Who can resist smirking a little at the though of a naked man running across the playing field during a sporting event? When the furor over streaking started to die down, people turned to publicly baring their souls, spilling their hearts on talk shows. Later, technology brought us instant messaging, cell phones, and text messaging. "Tell me everything, " became, "Tell me everything... right now!" Modern America has embraced the speed of instant communication to the point of becoming almost voyerristic. So what's so wrong about my little personal Show and Tell problem?

Personal experience tells me I'm not the only one who does this sort of thing. In fact, my case is relatively mild. Last summer in Border's I met a man who told me he was a poet. Okay, I thought, that's nice. Then he went on to tell me that he came from a long line of poets, - schizophrenic poets - and that he hoped to move to Paris soon to write poetry all the time. I didn't need to know that, but in a way, I'm glad he told me.

Last fall I dated a guy who asked me things like "How does PMS affect you?" and, "So, what's the craziest place you've ever had sex?" I can't imagine why anyone in their right mind would ask these things so early in a relationship. Who needs to know that stuff? I may be a verbal streaker, but that guy was a verbal voyeur. We stopped seeing each other soon after that.

Maybe that's why I sometimes let my thoughts run wildly out of my mouth, like a kid breaking free on the last day of school. Maybe I'm just testing the waters, trying to figure out what is taboo and what is simply acceptable curiosity. Maybe subconsciously I'm thinking that it's better for me if a man runs away sooner rather than later, when I'm more emotionally attached. Perhaps my verbal streaking is just my way of saying, "Here I am. Love me or leave me." In my heart, I know what's wrong with this habit. My unconscious urge to let my heart run free and be loved openly is what keeps men from wanting to know more. I don't just pique their curiosity; I kill it. I take away their desire to look deeper and see the real me. There's no doubt about it - streaking leaves little to the imagination. The deeper loss is that verbal streaking eliminates the joy of discovery, one of the most intoxicating things about being with someone new.

I used to think it strange that so many of my relationships have ended the same way. Now I see that I haven't had many relationships; I've had the same relationship with many different people. It's time for something new. Shakespeare wrote, "We know what we are, but know not what we may be." It is with that thought that I quietly, demurely dress my ego for more successful relationships. I'm going to find that voice of reason and give it a megaphone. From now on, I'm saving streaking for that clothing-optional beach in Hawaii.