I Confess! 5 Things I Really, Really Don’t Want You To Know… About Me by Coye LeRocke
The ultra fab Coye LeRocke is our newest contributor here on the Passionista Playbook. She’s also kicking off our new series, “Confessions.” They say confession is good for the soul, right? Well we’ve got 5 things we really didn’t want anyone to know because this is the year of authenticity. Coye will also be bringing us Passionista Product Reviews. If you want her to review your product, contact me! -aa could upload photos of myself in statuesque positions and tell you I’m a supermodel jet-setting between the States and Paris, France.
could upload photos of myself in statuesque positions and tell you I’m a supermodel jet-setting between the States and Paris, France.
But I’m not.
Or I could tweet a hot 16 on Twitter and let my followers know I just signed a seven-figure deal and am about to be major.
But that’s not happening.
Because you see, on the internet, I can be whoever I choose to be. Fortunately for me and my readers, I choose to be me.
In order for me to build a relationship, an unshakable bond, between myself and those who read my words, I have to let you into my world. I would have to reveal things about myself that some may find fascinating, inspiring, or funny, even if it’s not funny to me.
So, here we are.
As the iconic lyrics of Usher’s 2004 hit single goes, “these are my confessions.”
And one more thing, none of them will involve band camp.
I Talk To Myself…A Lot
You won’t find me having candid conversations in the produce section of the grocery store but in my car and from room to room, I’m cracking myself up and discussing the latest in pop culture. Maybe it’s because I was such a shy child and I’m making up for it now. For the last few years, I’ve been using a voice recorder to document my thoughts, much like a journal. Some of my private talks have spurred topics for my pop culture and lifestyle blog, LeRocke.com.
Black On Black.
Most of us have that one color (or two) we look absolutely fabulous in and receive compliments every time we wear it like “That is your color!”
Your chosen hue can become your signature.
Actress LisaRaye always looks ultra crisp in white. Nicki Minaj built her brand around passionate pink and Taylor Swift looks ravishing in red.
For me, it’s black. Yes, basic yet incredibly sexy black.
As a six-year old who was dressed in everything from bright polka dots to stripes and floral patterns meant only for furniture, wearing black was a virtue I wasn’t allowed. I’ve always seen black as elegant, mysterious, and an incredible canvas for pops of other colors.
My wardrobe is about 70% black and if I’m not wearing it when you see me, it just means I need to do my laundry.
Bought My First “Personal Massager” When I Was 18.
For as long as I can remember, I never had any issues with my sexuality. Through experimentation, the talk, and by, we’ll say “borrowing” the VHS cassettes my father kept hidden at the bottom of his sock drawer, to this day, discussing “s-e-x” and all things related to the topic are like chatting it up about the weather.
As a graduation gift to myself since a trip to Jamaica was a little more than I could afford, I headed to the local brick and mortar adult store with my high school sweetheart to pick up my first vibe. It was nothing extravagant. Simple and somewhat discreet. It was made of plastic, about five inches long, and enclosed in a royal purple tin can, packed aside a candle, massage oil, and a feather, in what was collectively called “The Honeymoon Kit.”
Shockingly, the name of the kit didn’t scare my boyfriend away but so he could have something for himself, we used our part-time income to buy him a g-string, designed as an elephant. It was the cutest thing. It had ears and of course, the trunk.
Need I say more?
I only used the “massager” as it was described on the container about four times before it burnt out and was driven to purchase a replacement.
Some of us can recall our first sexy toy and my little purple vibe that could was quaint while it lasted.
Down and Dirty in a Chinese Restaurant Restroom.
If you’ve ever done the deed in public, then you may be familiar with the overwhelming and tousled feelings of exhilaration and outright fear in committing such an act where one can spot you at any moment.
On this given Sunday, my boyfriend and I (the same one with the g-string) decided to play “Truth or Dare,” a game that started off innocent but escalated at an entertaining yet alarming rate. We were having lunch with a friend of ours at a newly opened Chinese restaurant.
As mentioned before, it was an innocent game and everyone was picking “Truth.”
Of course, it took the adventurous Sagittarian (me) to kick things up a notch but was unaware of where it would end up. The next time the choice of fate question was directed towards me, I replied with an overly confident, “Dare.”
Excuse the lack of surprise but my boyfriend’s dare for me was a request for us to go in the restroom so I could drop down to my knees. All of this was taking place on a Sunday but I wasn’t being challenged to say a prayer.
We both knew it wouldn’t stop at where it was supposed to but would lead to much more, one of penetrating proportions. There were only about a dozen patrons in the establishment, the majority being male so a quickie in the ladies’ room should go off and we could get off without interruption.
With our friend acting as a trusted lookout, we headed to the restroom after we placed our orders. Maybe it was just the nature of the game or I was subconsciously being entranced by the restaurant’s seductive red and black decor that aroused this fire sign’s soul but I was more than game.
As anticipated, more happened than what was dared but we were done and cleaned up by the time our food arrived at the table. It went down quickly but it was great and dim sum.
If This Writing Thing Doesn’t Work Out, My Next Career Move Would Be To Become A …
I can recall twenty-plus years ago when asked by my out-of-town relatives the most complicated question you could ask a kindergartner: what do you want to be when you grow up?
I may not have known which marker I would use to color my dolls’ faces but regardless of how many times they would ask the career question, they would always get the same answer.
I want to write.
And like sunrise, they would respond with a concerned, “Are you sure?” and coax me to become a doctor or teacher like just about everyone else on my paternal side of the family.
My parents have always been supportive with my mother staying on my behind to continue working towards my goals and my father encouraging me from a young age to “write one of those best-sellers.”
Even then while I was still in those frilly homemade dresses with the itchy crinoline underneath and beaded braids that popped me in the face every time I turned my head, I knew such an accomplishment wouldn’t be easy.
I flirted with other career paths like pharmaceuticals, hospitality, and was employed as a barista for about two weeks but every single time, I would return to freelance writing. After all these years, I’m still my toughest critic.
This is a path I feel I was destined to take even with an early on naysayer instructing me to give up on writing completely. Her comments thwarted me out of my lane for a little while but it was when I went to college and both my English and Communications professors told me to never stop and hone my skills.
To paraphrase a memorable movie quotable: I’m still here, I’m still standing, I’m still strong.
And there you have it.
Five confessions lighter.
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