Am I a Creep?

Posted September 3Sep 3

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There exists a curious kind of self-doubt that slinks in at the weirdest hours. It can be often in line at the grocery store, or on a park bench, watching a stranger with nice hair tie their shoelace in what is, somehow, the most sensuous motion you’ve seen all week. That little voice creeps in, clutching its pearls and gasping,

“Oh no. Am I creepy?”

It’s not just any insecurity. This one is marinated in moral panic and topped with a generous dollop of shame.

Suddenly, your inner monologue turns into a courtroom, and the charges start rolling in.

Letch. Degenerate. Weirdo. Sleaze. Scumbag. Freak. Horndog. Skank. Predator. Peeping Tom. Voyeur. Pervert. Hound. Masher. Groper. Philanderer. Chester. Sicko. Slimeball. Creep.

You sit there, coffee in hand, wondering if your passing thought about a stranger’s forearms has placed you firmly on some imaginary FBI watchlist. Or worse: is feeling creepy, making you look more creepy?

Must avoid further eye contact at any cost.

It starts innocently. You notice someone and something about their laugh, the style of their coat, the crinkle in their eye. Your mind, the overzealous improv artist that it is, begins a performance: You’re married. You share a dog. You argue about whose turn it is to unload the dishwasher. You make up. Passionately. Perhaps in erotic detail.

And then the scene dissolves. You’re alone. They’re gone. And you’re left blinking, disoriented as if you’ve just come back from Narnia with a latte.

Cue that insidious feeling that is flavored similar to guilt.

You tell yourself, “People like me don’t think things like that.”

You clutch your cardigan tighter.

But what are people like you?

Are we not allowed to have rogue thoughts, fleeting fantasies, or even full-blown romantic hallucinations that include joint tax returns with someone we saw once at Whole Foods?

It’s easy, in the age of consent advocacy tattoos and HR training videos with suspiciously specific reenactments, to assume that the mere existence of uninvited desire makes us dangerously culpable of something sinister.

But here’s the truth wrapped in tender humor and a little sarcasm: if you’re worried you’re being creepy, you’re probably not. The actual Chesters of the world don’t tend to sit around cross-legged on their floor at 2 am, whispering to their ceiling, “Am I the problem?”

Erotic thoughts, especially the ones that come unbidden like the ghost of a crush past, are not blueprints for action. They’re just signals. Human ones. Like when your phone buzzes, and it’s not a text from a lover but from a politician. Unfulfilling, but not criminal.

They say more about what you wish life could offer than any sinister agenda. Perhaps, they are violations of ancient personal blue laws in the key of shame. That thread might be worth a gentle pull.

That daydream about the woman at the post office who had a tattoo of a tulip and a faint air of melancholy?

That wasn’t predatory — it was poetry.

(Terrible, unedited poetry, maybe — but still poetry.)

These mental tangents are like fantasy Airbnb listings for a life we’ll never actually live. “Charming stranger’s loft with wistful eye contact and vintage jazz soundtrack. Sleeps two. No pets.” They give us color where life is beige. Meaning where days feel flat.

They’re not threats to society; they’re salves for loneliness.

Now, is there a line?

Of course. Fantasies are one thing. Acting like a human trench coat full of unsolicited compliments is quite another.

But that’s precisely what makes your internal reckoning so comforting: it shows that you care. It means you’re not blindly acting out your thoughts like a malfunctioning robot coded by Freud. You’re self-aware, and more importantly, you know the difference between imagination and entitlement.

The trouble is, we’ve been taught to fear fantasy as though it’s a gateway drug to public disgrace.

But in reality, our imagination often steps in where reality has failed to deliver. In the same way a crying baby imagines their mother into existence until she returns, adults construct pleasant illusions to soften the edges of loneliness, longing, and the mundane cruelty of unmet desire.

So what if your mind runs wild when you pass someone who smells like cedar and mystery? You’re not launching a covert surveillance operation. You’re whispering into the fog of your mind, “What if?”

And then you move on. And the world keeps spinning.

Here’s the kicker: the more we demonize these thoughts, the more we risk stripping ourselves of one of the few innocent places our hearts can still roam freely.

The world is full of unsolvable problems. The inner lives of decent people imagining harmless love stories with their baristas shouldn’t be on that list.

So the next time your brain hands you a sexy little reel starring you and the person who just asked if the seat next to you is taken, smile internally. Thank your imagination for the serotonin boost. And remind yourself: Creeps aren’t employed with worry about being creeps. That job belongs to people with messy, yearning, moral, and tender souls like yours.

And maybe that stranger? They were fantasizing about you, too.

Now wouldn’t that be a twist?

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This post was previously published on medium.com.