The truth is, I wanted to be that girl. So much of me wanted to be that girl. You know, the sexy girl who commands male attention. The pretty girl with tousled locks, soft eyes, perfect curves. She tells the best jokes. She laughs off inappropriate touches. She uses her sexuality. Licks her lips. Rubs her hips. Reminds boys how much they’d enjoy taking her to bed.
I still want to be that girl. The girl that doesn’t exist. The girl invented by male fantasy. The girl every boy wants. The girl who is cunning, hilarious, and strong, but still good only for the curves and holes on her body.
I wanted to be sexy. To know men wanted me. And what showed their want more than handing over $120 + tip for two hours in my company? And what showed their want more than their desperate attempts to slip their hands inside my bra? And what showed their want more than when they told me how beautiful and sweet I was?
Of course I knew it was fake. They were full of shit. Saying anything to try to get into my pants–most of them anyway. Of course I knew they would say the same things to the next girl.
But I soaked in the validation. Because, no matter how much I get, I still feel like the girl who didn’t get asked to prom. I still feel like the girl on the phone with my crush, listening as he talks about his ex-gf.
There were moments when I lost my insecurity. Alcohol helped me feel like the pretty girl. After all, he chose me. Over all the other girls, he chose me. I was the pretty girl he wanted. I was pretty. I was desirable.
There were moments when I felt special. Magical. I looked in the mirror and saw hot shit. Not a gawky girl in glasses and puffy T-shirts. A girl with perfect hair, slick makeup, killer curves. Men, the best ones, tried desperately to impress me. I got to be the casual, laid back girl. The girl who sits, watching the action, aloof, above it all.
Did it all mean anything? I don’t know. It changed the way I think about sex and gender. I know how it feels like to be an object, to mold yourself into what someone else wants. I know how it feels to base your worth on your looks and the income it brings. I know how it feels to be that beautiful girl who makes the party happen.
It feels empty.