In high school, it didn't take long for me to realize that I was turning heads. It wasn't, however, because of a perfectly proportioned body, an uncannily symmetrical face or a bosom that qualified as a separate limb. No, I was noticed because my voice makes me sound like a porn star.
When puberty began for my classmates and me, I listened to the girls gain more sophisticated tones while the boys' voices just got deeper. And although the rest of me was able to keep up with them, my voice stayed exactly the same as it was since I emerged from the womb.
For some reason, people find the combination of a little girl voice in an adult body an indication of a budding nympho. In addition to the extreme creepiness factor of this idea, it was completely false - I was 14 and had never been kissed.
However, since my voice eerily matched those of the porn stars my adolescent male counterparts had come to adore, my everyday utterances triggered countless that's what she saids"" and ""your moms.""
Suddenly, I couldn't say, ""Can I borrow a pencil?,"" ""What's the cosine of 140 degrees,"" or ""If you say taaaiiight one more time I'm going to eat my own hand"" without the rest of the class thinking I was about to rip off my top and mount the teacher.
Once I got to college, I realized my pornographic voice had its perks. I used it one night to entertain my friends by talking to truckers over my friend's car radio.
""Hey boys,"" I said in my most seductive tone. ""I'm getting pretty lonely out here all by myself.""
I received a bunch of hopeful cheers in response before I got scared and retreated back into my shell.
""Just kidding, bye,"" I said, hoping to shut them up.
What I unfortunately realized later was that little girl would have had the exact same effect talking over the radio as I did. I figured this out my first summer home from college, when anyone who called the house mistook me for my 8-year-old sister whenever I answered the phone.
""Hello?"" I'd answer.
""Hi Perri!"" they'd respond. ""How's camp going?""
""Actually, it's Kiera.""
""Oh,"" they'd say, embarrassed. ""I'm so sorry.""
Instead of assuring them it happened all the time, I often found it much more amusing to follow with a moment of silence to make them think it was uniquely their mistake.
""She's very happy at camp,"" I'd respond. ""But don't ask about my life or anything like that.""
Sometimes, however, I just rolled with it.
""Hi Perri!"" they'd say. ""How's camp?""
""Pretty good,"" I'd respond. ""We spend our days pondering the existential implications of recreation while stripping for cash.""
""Oh, that's nice.""
While my voice has proved both humiliating and amusing at different points in my life, I eventually realized it's not about whether its pre-pubescent quality is a good thing or a bad thing; it's really just about embracing what I can't change and figuring out how it can work to my advantage.
My voice has succeeded in convincing people I really did just lose my lift ticket when I tried for an extra day on the slopes, that I do deserve that second scoop of ice cream for free and even though I've never actually gotten out of a speeding ticket, my voice has elicited a lot of sympathy from the issuers.
Whether I'm a porn star in the making or have the innocence of an 8-year-old girl is something I can't answer. I think it's somewhere in between, as is probably true for most girls in their second half of college.
But I don't think most girls my age can say strangers have offered to help them find their parents on the same night that they've been asked to star in ""The Young and the Wetness.""
If you need a narrator for your cartoon or homemade video, e-mail Kiera at wiatrak@wisc.edu.
