i witness pictures of a “relaxing” woman and i think: it is funny how they see us. in the movies under the shower, the actress stands with shaved legs, leaning into the water, opening her mouth with a sensuous sigh. our sleepovers are supposed to come with bras and tight panties, laughing our painted lips over pizza you don’t see us eat. we take walks in the park in good heels, look excellent after running, always have a gentle smile on our pristine faces.
an artist draws a piece about how women alone don’t have to be sad that they’re alone, they should relish in it, which i thank him for giving me permission to do. the result of his work is half-nude ladies draped like linens over their couches, flashes of thigh gaps and open lips, breasts swelling pleasantly, a yawn and a stretch that shows off her hipbones.
the only evidence i have that i’m normal is considered comedy. our reality is comedy. lying in bed under three covers, bra off but sweater on, laptop positioned directly under lack of a chin: that gets a laugh. in the movies, the quirky girl in a cute-ugly but somehow flattering pajama set gets caught at the supermarket and it’s a nice romantic scene where we find out how awkward it is for her to exist without makeup, without her best effort to please sexually. she sees her boss or her cute friend or whatever else makes us laugh and cringe and the next time we put on “real clothes” before we go out shopping.
the real world exists somewhere outside the picture of women. we come home and strip off our bras, but instead of that being a still image of a delicate female stepping away nude, it’s a moment of our peacefulness. the narrative so often stops here, us heading our improbably slim legs to the bedroom. but instead our breasts don’t always hang evenly, instead some of us do not have breasts, instead we swipe a hand over our tired faces and smear our makeup but are too lazy to take it off. our bodies crack and crunch and do not stretch like a cat but instead in weird directions, we rush out our breath and slouch and barely keep our eyes open. we lie with our thighs touching and our stomachs hanging because it’s comfortable. we sling ourselves undainty over whatever will support our weight. our showers consist equally of staring into the void as of unflattering angles while we wash; our bodies never come pre-shaved and for some reason our underarm hair is really persistent or our leg hair is dark and shows even after shaving or maybe both. our sleepovers mostly feature netflix and wine, getting food on our faces, eating until our stomachs make round pleased hills, talking trash and swearing up storms more than we paint our nails. we don’t go to the store in cute-ugly clothes, we go because we forgot to buy tampons or we dropped all our rice on the ground or because we’re human and we need supplies to survive.
there is a very strange body-positive rule where somehow, we always end up under the slogan “beautiful.” our loneliness, our adulthood, our moments where were are not even being judged - i should remind you that those are beautiful too. but the truth is that you don’t need to be beautiful. and these moments in particular, that belong to you: they’re yours, they don’t need to be told that they exist in some plane of desirability. who cares if they’re ugly, if they’re truly self-serving and unflattering and indelicate. when you are home, you are finally human, returned to skin that itches in awkward places and ugly habits and it’s okay. they won’t show you a version of that without laughing about it, but we are real, we don’t keep ourselves perfect in even our peaceful moments. it’s okay. i know you might be worried what happens if you get a partner or roommate and they learn you live this way, that you’re messy and forget to brush your teeth sometimes and get food all over the place when you eat and i’m telling you: you’re not unusual. you’re just human, and these moments aren’t somehow shameful. they’re not untouchable and unspeakable because they’re not pretty. because instead they’re human.
we aren’t here to be watched, and we don’t need your approval. we weren’t created to always please. sometimes we get to take a break from beautiful.
(via premrasspaaeyaa)
Minor Details
I avoid the topic
but it comes up
from time to time.
“Men make me uncomfortable”.
And the response is
always the same.
“Why don’t you like men?”
As if my discomfort can easily
be chalked up to distaste.
I never said that.
They make me uncomfortable.
There’s a difference.I always get weird looks,
sighs that say
“Here we go”.
It’s like I’m advertising
“Coming soon in
conversations near you!
A feminist ranting
about rape culture!”
Because these are
dirty words.
So I hate explaining
what is it about men
that makes me uncomfortable.
But ask and you
shall receive.It starts young.
It starts with
a deadbeat father
who was arrested
when I was only two.
Arrested for sexually abusing
my twelve year old sister.
It starts with
flashbacks and dreams
of times with my father
remembering things that I’m
not even sure really happened.
But I’m afraid to ask
because I’m afraid they did.Just a little older
and a distant cousin flirting
with my seven year old sister.
“If only you were
just a little bit older”.
Because age is
just a number
when it comes to
a man’s desire.
And family is
not exempt.It’s because of
early development.
When I was only
8 years old
my breasts
started to grow.
That’s when men
began to tell me
“You’re a pretty
young lady.
What a man eater
you’ll be”.
Because I was expected
to be a sexual being
meant to please men.And by the time
I was 12 years old
my c-cup breasts
were a novelty.
Being groped by
boys my own age.
Because they didn’t
need an excuse
To grab my chest.
But as a regular victim of
Slap Ass Friday,
they needed one
to grab my ass.Because after many
slaps in the face
warranted by unwanted
touches,
I became a popular dare.
I was dangerous.
I was a tease.
My body didn’t
belong to me.I was 13 and
walking home
from school.
Just 2 blocks from
my front door
and a man pulled over.
“Hey pretty girl,
need a ride?”
No thank you.
“Your loss”.
I was home alone and
I looked over my shoulder
as I crossed the threshold.
In case I had been followed.At work, my mother
called the cops.
The officer who
entered my home
didn’t take my statement
because my mother was
probably overreacting.
And there was
no use trying
to track down
the van that matched
my pathetic description
hindered by my panic.So when I was 14
and a man followed me
at the transfer station
from one bus to another,
I was hyper aware
of his presence.
Especially after he chose
the seat next to me
on an uncrowded bus.
He asked me
where I was headed.
And as previously trained
by my mother,
I told him I was on my way
to visit my mother at work.
At the prison.
But he didn’t take the hint.He stroked my hair
and asked me how old I was.
When I told him I was
only 14 years old,
he was impressed.
You’re very pretty
for 14 years old.
You seem much
older to me.
You’re very mature.And nobody said a word
as he stroked my inner thigh.
My body went rigid and
I was sick to my stomach.
But I didn’t push him away
because I was afraid
he would hurt me.
He was a grown man.
Much larger than my
5 ft and 120 lb frame.
And I didn’t know if he
was aggressive.
So I let him grope me
to stay “safe”.16 years old
and the boy I loved
told me he may not
want to stay with me
if we didn’t have sex soon.
Because he didn’t want
to be a virgin much longer.
“And we loved each other, right?”
My virtue meant less
than his desire
to spread my legs.
And after that,
his touch made me sick.Soon after, we broke up
He’d found affection
from another girl.
But one time,
months later,
I was standing
in front of him
and he took a picture
of my backside.
He showed it to
his friends and
promised to send it
on snapchat.
But I was the crazy one
for overhearing and
becoming angry
at his violation.18 years old and
a little too much booze
in my system
with not enough food
in my stomach
makes me sick.
So I put myself to bed
in my hotel room
which was a revolving door
of unfamiliar people.
When it finally settled down,
I turned out the light
and tried to will away
the sickness I felt.I heard someone stumble
across the threshold
Into the dark room
And assumed it was
my roommate.
When I felt the covers
being pulled off of me
I groaned her name
thinking she was
messing with me.
But when I felt a hand
slide up my leg
and under my dress,
I shot up in bed
and grabbed the
Hot, sweaty hand.This is exactly
what I feared
would happen.
Because I’ve been
trained for years
to protect myself
from situations like this.
And the discomfort
and the anger
that I’ve built up
over the years
from every time I
was taken advantage of
or sexualized
spoke for me.“Don’t you ever
put your filthy hands
on a girl again.
If you know what’s
best for you,
you will take
your grubby hands off me
and walk out that door
and never breathe a word
of this ever again.
You are scum
for trying to take
advantage of me.
And if you walk
into my room
ever again it
will be the last thing
you do.”My discomfort
runs deeper than
simple distaste for men.
It has been bred
for years by
unwanted touches,
sexual comments
and vulnerable moments
where I or my loved ones
have been taken advantage of.
And had to remain meek
to protect ourselves.
And I refuse
to be complacent
any longer.
(Source: thegayozzy, via lavenderlibrary-deactivated2017)