Anonymous Confession
It’s not just a preference. It’s a current that runs through me, deep and persistent, a secret channel beneath the surface of my life. I’m attracted to very hairy women. Not just a little fuzz here or there, but truly hairy. Bearded, hair all over the body. The hairier the better.
I’m saying this out loud for the first time, even if it’s just to this anonymous screen. And the admission itself feels like a tremor, because I love Sarah. She’s kind, brilliant, funny, and beautiful in every way that society dictates. Her skin is smooth, meticulously cared for, and she glows with a kind of effortless grace. Our life together is stable, happy, filled with laughter and a comfort I cherish. I would never want to hurt her. And that’s the brutal truth of the conflict.
Because while I hold Sarah’s hand, feeling the soft curve of her knuckles, my mind can drift. I’ll see a woman on the street with dark, untamed hair spilling from under her sleeve, or a striking portrait online of a woman whose facial hair is an undeniable feature, and it’s like a jolt. A sudden, visceral pull that makes my breath catch. It’s not just aesthetic; it’s something primal, a deep fascination with that raw, untamed humanity. It feels authentic, powerful, a rebellion against the carefully curated smoothness we’re all taught to aspire to.
Last week, it happened again. We were at a friend’s art opening, a crowded, buzzy affair. I was talking to Sarah, laughing at something she’d said, when my gaze flickered across the room. And there she was. Not necessarily conventionally beautiful, but stunning to me in a way that silenced the noise of the room. Her dark hair, thick and curly, cascaded down her back. Her arms, visible in a sleeveless dress, were covered in a soft, dark down. And her face… there was a subtle shadow above her lip, a faint but undeniable darkness on her chin, catching the gallery lights. She wasn’t hiding it. She wasn’t trying to. She was just *being*.
My heart slammed against my ribs. It wasn’t lust, not in the vulgar sense. It was a profound sense of recognition, an almost spiritual pull towards something that felt like home. A part of me screamed, *“There you are.”* I felt a flush spread across my face, not of embarrassment, but of a strange, forbidden thrill. I forced myself to turn back to Sarah, to listen to her words, to nod and smile. But my eyes kept darting back, stealing glances at the woman across the room, committing her image to memory.
The guilt was immediate, a cold knot in my stomach. What kind of person am I, loving Sarah so completely, yet having this intense, almost magnetic pull towards something so entirely different? It feels like a betrayal, even though it’s all in my head. It feels like I’m broken, harboring this strange, niche desire that no one, especially not Sarah, would ever understand. How do you explain that your deepest attraction is to something considered, by most, undesirable? That the very thing people spend fortunes to remove, is what sets your soul alight?
I went home with Sarah that night, kissed her goodnight, held her close. Her skin was so soft against mine, her scent so familiar and comforting. And beneath all that love and tenderness, the image of the woman in the gallery lingered, a quiet, unsettling presence. It’s a secret I carry, a part of myself I keep locked away, knowing it would confuse, maybe even hurt, the person I love most.
Is it possible to truly love someone while harboring such a specific, unfulfilled craving for something so profoundly different? Or does this secret attraction make me fundamentally unfair to Sarah, or even to myself?
