Glances
I get it, dude. I do.
I look more exciting than your beautiful wife, sitting to your side with a brand new baby on her lap. Blocking access to her womb and her heart, a tiny little presence that has supplanted you completely.
My breasts are hugged by a form fitting shirt, framed by a vest designed to make them appealing to you. Hers are covered by flannel, comfortable and soft for a baby to rest against.
My hips are mine alone, not occupied by a tiny being that has sucked all the sexuality that created it right back into itself, for the moment.
Ah, for the moment. All the moments. That's what you need to remember, as you look at my hips and breasts longingly. The moments you've helped create. The depth of sexuality you're missing, that's causing your eyes to stray, have nothing on those moments.
I hope, for your sake, that your father taught you the breadth of moments available to you now, the depth of the beauty you've created. Because without that knowledge it's got to be hard to force yourself to look beyond what you're being denied now, beyond your lack of instant gratification.
-----
This post started with me noticing a regular Joe kind of guy checking me out, while out with his wife and newborn baby. And then, this morning, I saw a beautiful older woman glaring daggers at me while we were both standing at the coffee shop counter, waiting for our coffee. I did a double take when I saw it, because she was beyond lovely. Long, perfectly tended white hair, slender as a ballerina, dressed by wealth and years of style... she was gorgeous, and she was glaring at me like my physical presence offended her. We hadn't interacted in any way, except to stand near each other. And then I watched her walk back to her table, where her husband was sitting. He was a handsome older man, just as well preserved as her. And I caught him staring at me, much less covertly than the young dude. He didn't look away in shame when he caught my eye. And I realized her glare wasn't for me, but for a thousand different painful glances not directed at her.
I am not a beautiful woman. I'm not falsely modest, but I know the planes and contours of my face, and they aren't symmetrical enough to be beautiful. They're mine, and I love them. But men don't look at my face and find themselves compelled to pull me into their lives.
My body isn't classically attractive, either. Lord knows I'm not slender. I'm tall, and I carry myself well. I'll be a handsome old woman some day, if I take care of myself. But standing next to that lovely older woman, I look like a carriage horse next to an Arabian. My curves are substantial, and I look like I am meant to stride, not glide. All that is an abstract way of saying I'm a size 18, with a giant rack, a round butt, and a lot of inherent strength.
I'm not what I see when I'm told what's beautiful by the world around me.
But what I see in mens eyes tells a different story, and has since I was very young. Too young to understand, really, at 15. I have been forced to notice the attention I get, whether I like it or not, as a defense mechanism. I'm an extremely observant person already, but my body has pushed that power into a whole new category. I notice almost every little interaction, and I categorize it and file it away. Because without that ability, without being able to SEE and analyze and know, all I'd have is the vague knowledge that men want me and women hate me, without understanding why or what to do about it. I'd be powerless, it feels like, in the midst of the storm my body creates around me.
So when I see the glares from women whose men are looking at my breasts, I analyze it. I build a story around their lives, I wonder about who they are and how they interact. I humanize them, so they can't dehumanize me. Understanding their motives, having a grasp on why they act towards me the way they do, makes it easier for me to walk through the world untouched by the expectations of others.
I look more exciting than your beautiful wife, sitting to your side with a brand new baby on her lap. Blocking access to her womb and her heart, a tiny little presence that has supplanted you completely.
My breasts are hugged by a form fitting shirt, framed by a vest designed to make them appealing to you. Hers are covered by flannel, comfortable and soft for a baby to rest against.
My hips are mine alone, not occupied by a tiny being that has sucked all the sexuality that created it right back into itself, for the moment.
Ah, for the moment. All the moments. That's what you need to remember, as you look at my hips and breasts longingly. The moments you've helped create. The depth of sexuality you're missing, that's causing your eyes to stray, have nothing on those moments.
I hope, for your sake, that your father taught you the breadth of moments available to you now, the depth of the beauty you've created. Because without that knowledge it's got to be hard to force yourself to look beyond what you're being denied now, beyond your lack of instant gratification.
-----
This post started with me noticing a regular Joe kind of guy checking me out, while out with his wife and newborn baby. And then, this morning, I saw a beautiful older woman glaring daggers at me while we were both standing at the coffee shop counter, waiting for our coffee. I did a double take when I saw it, because she was beyond lovely. Long, perfectly tended white hair, slender as a ballerina, dressed by wealth and years of style... she was gorgeous, and she was glaring at me like my physical presence offended her. We hadn't interacted in any way, except to stand near each other. And then I watched her walk back to her table, where her husband was sitting. He was a handsome older man, just as well preserved as her. And I caught him staring at me, much less covertly than the young dude. He didn't look away in shame when he caught my eye. And I realized her glare wasn't for me, but for a thousand different painful glances not directed at her.
I am not a beautiful woman. I'm not falsely modest, but I know the planes and contours of my face, and they aren't symmetrical enough to be beautiful. They're mine, and I love them. But men don't look at my face and find themselves compelled to pull me into their lives.
My body isn't classically attractive, either. Lord knows I'm not slender. I'm tall, and I carry myself well. I'll be a handsome old woman some day, if I take care of myself. But standing next to that lovely older woman, I look like a carriage horse next to an Arabian. My curves are substantial, and I look like I am meant to stride, not glide. All that is an abstract way of saying I'm a size 18, with a giant rack, a round butt, and a lot of inherent strength.
I'm not what I see when I'm told what's beautiful by the world around me.
But what I see in mens eyes tells a different story, and has since I was very young. Too young to understand, really, at 15. I have been forced to notice the attention I get, whether I like it or not, as a defense mechanism. I'm an extremely observant person already, but my body has pushed that power into a whole new category. I notice almost every little interaction, and I categorize it and file it away. Because without that ability, without being able to SEE and analyze and know, all I'd have is the vague knowledge that men want me and women hate me, without understanding why or what to do about it. I'd be powerless, it feels like, in the midst of the storm my body creates around me.
So when I see the glares from women whose men are looking at my breasts, I analyze it. I build a story around their lives, I wonder about who they are and how they interact. I humanize them, so they can't dehumanize me. Understanding their motives, having a grasp on why they act towards me the way they do, makes it easier for me to walk through the world untouched by the expectations of others.
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